


Fight, Flight, and Fire's light

by WhimsiKitty



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Actually this story pretty much wrote itself, And the first avaliable for public consumption, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Transformation, Anthropomorphic, Author is Technologically Challenged, Because I can't leave characters in their original bodies to save my life, Breaking the Fourth Wall, But it's just a plot device later on, But that's about all that is Canon Typical, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't read these tags, Dragons, F/M, First Fanfiction, Friends to Lovers, Hallucinations, Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I hope that's enough tags, Illness, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Insanity, Insomnia, It's all beeped out because I'm an Innocent Daisy Flower, Jk it really is, Love, Magic, Mayhem, Mm that Sweet Character Suffering, Monsters, Mythical Beings & Creatures, No Foul Language, Non-sexual vore, Or am I, Or it made me laugh, Or the first I've stuck with, Precognition, Pyromania, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Soft Vore, Stress, Tags Contain Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, Ulcers, Vomiting, What is the meaning of life, Which I say as if this story Had A Plot, Why are you still reading these tags, Y'all will have to let me know on that one, don't look at me officer it isn't my fault, i'm so ashamed, like glacial, why am I writing this story, why are you reading this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-10 05:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12291915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsiKitty/pseuds/WhimsiKitty
Summary: Willow's been lonely too long, with only shadows to keep her company. Despite this, she won't admit she needs anyone or anything, especially not a dork like Wilson! She's been doing just fine on her own, thank you very much.So, why can't she bring herself to walk away?Wilson tries to remain open-minded, but every time he turns around, things get stranger! It's enough to drive a man mad! He doesn't like things he can't explain - be it magic, monsters, people, or even... himself?~~~Rated T mainly for bizarre, mostly psychological horror elements/sheer weirdness and maaaaybe a few adult jokes, but most of that will probably come in later on, and otherwise this is pretty clean! Hey, I've been reading this aloud to a nine year old. She's probably my biggest littlest fan. But she's also cheerfully suggested that Willow could cook and eat Wilson if she didn't know what else to do with him, so??? What can I say, she's precocious and I am a questionable influence.





	1. Inflammable

**Author's Note:**

> I've written fanfiction before, but I've never finished anything, or posted any of it online, so this is totally new to me! @.@ Pls have patience with me!
> 
> As stated in the tags (if you haven't read them, don't, there are spoilers up there!), pretty much this entire story was conceived over the course of a single night of being unable to fall asleep. Give or take. It's... pretty ridiculous, haha! (You have been warned!) 
> 
> Despite all that, please let me know what you think! I'm open to constructive criticism and tips for improvement, but even if you don't have advice, please comment below! I <3 <3 <3 Feedback!! \o/

If Willow had just had a little more warning, she would have kicked off her boots. If she’d known a week earlier where she’d be now, though, she would have opted for warmer and comfier footwear, like slippers. Heck, she should have packed her whole wardrobe. Or, better yet, she wouldn’t have come at all!

She missed her slippers. She missed a lot of things.

As it was, she’d been running in obnoxious high heeled boots for a very long time. Her sweaty feet had slipped down the steep slope of the soles of her shoes. Her toes were squished like sardines, and her balance was iffy at best.

Willow was not fond of sardines. Or fish. Or wet things, or cold things, or dark things. Especially not _the_ dark thing she had been fleeing from since sometime around sunrise. She’d thought she’d been having a nightmare. Shadows were shady business to start with, but shadows that were darker then the pitch-black night, shadows that had no visible source, and shadows that had too many teeth were some of her personal least favorites.

The demonic apparition behind her obviously didn’t care what Willow liked or didn’t like. It didn’t care that her toes were numb from lack of blood flow, or that her lungs ached from gasping frantically at the crisp, cold morning air. If anything, it seemed to take pleasure from her pain. For every thought of hopelessness or fear, it seemed to loom larger. It was enough to drive a girl crazy!

What Willow really needed, even more so than practical footwear, was a real fire. She’d already burned everything remotely flammable she had. All she had left was a handful of stale berries, and her lighter.

Well... she could have taken off her sweater and burned that. But the evenings were so cold! And it was her favorite, and now only, sweater.

She stumbled over her own tired feet, barely catching herself. The monster behind her snapped at her, much too close for comfort. She felt something warm on her back, but wasn’t sure if it was blood, monster saliva, or just her imagination. Rather than fret over it uselessly while she couldn’t do anything about it, she chose to curse her short legs and move faster. Desperate for an escape of any kind, she scanned the horizon. She’d been running through an utterly barren field for an agonizingly long time, the only diversity from the seemingly endless flat grey expanse being the occasional boulder. But upon another glance, she thought she saw on the horizon what looked like a change of scenery.

Trees.

Willow _liked_ trees.

Her hope rekindled, putting an extra spring in her step. The fear frozen within her bones began to thaw, becoming anticipation. All she had to do was make it to that tree line. Those last twenty yards went by both painfully slowly, and disorientingly fast. Upon reaching the evergreen forest, she slowed, ducked around a tree, and collapsed. With shaking fingers, she hastily grabbed a fistful of the pine needles coating the ground around her and held them above her lighter. They caught quickly. She cupped them in her hands, awed, unable to look away.

The shadow beast screeched victoriously upon finding its prey. Startled out of her reverie, Willow dropped her precious, burning tinder. Instead of being extinguished, the twigs and pinecones dotting the forest floor served as fine fodder for her little fire. The change was almost instantaneous. Wild flames scurried up the tree she was nearest to like a frightened squirrel, and with the subtlest of breezes, it leapt on to the next tree. Birds took flight in terror, seeking safety from the rapidly spreading forest fire; her salvation, their destruction.

Willow cheered, not caring in the slightest what she must have looked like lying there in a sweaty, frazzled heap. All her troubles were forgotten, and even her relentless dark pursuer couldn’t hold a candle to the conflagration she had created. The snapping and crackling was rhythmic and soothing, almost as if it were telling her stories, and the twisting flames seemed to dance. Nothing could stand against the beautiful might of her flames!

Well, nothing but Willow. She spread out on the burning ground in ecstasy, like a child intending to make a snow angel. Everything that had ever gone wrong in her life (there were a lot of things, she didn’t care to list them all) suddenly seemed less terrible. Even her frightful flight had been made worth it. She felt all her concerns and cares burn away like the despicable darkness. She was relieved to see it go, but she couldn’t help thinking that if she had to die, this was exactly the way to go. Not old, decrepit, and surrounded by family as all her friends had claimed to desire, but surrounded instead by fire: the one thing that had never hurt her.

Adrenaline finally fading, she became aware of an acute pain in her back. She reached between her shoulders, thinking she might have been atop a sharp pinecone or pebble, but her hand came back bloody. She crinkled her nose. Ah, well. So the monster had gotten in a blow. She’d won, and there was fire. That was all that mattered right now. She could lick her wounds later, but wouldn’t let anything ruin this moment!

But, like all good things, it just couldn’t bear to last. A panicked shout shattered her moment of serenity. It didn’t sound like anything else she had come across in this weird place. It sounded human.

 _Most humans burn_. The thought broke her out of her blissful daze. She cursed and leapt to her feet, and took off again without another thought. The thing (which might have been human) screamed again, but this time it was in agony. The sound twisted painfully in Willow’s ears, and she couldn’t help but cringe. She’d heard similar sounds before, probably made them herself, but it wasn’t the kind of sound a body should get used to.

Just as she was wondering how to pinpoint the direction the scream had come from, something dark dashed out from behind a blazing tree. She ran smack into it, bowling it over. The other person (or whatever it was) wheezed, clearly having failed to plan ahead for this occurrence. She pushed herself up into a sitting position on top of it. It was, in fact, decidedly human. Being in direct contact with her, he (Willow assumed it was a he) was no longer on fire, but he was still smoldering and his exposed skin was amusingly pink from overheating. He looked terrified, on the verge of passing out or dying or… whatever.

She hoped he was leaning towards the first option. She wasn’t sure why.

Upon getting his breath back, the stranger made a small croaking noise. Willow blinked, unsure of what else to do. She didn’t have extensive experience treating burns, as she’d never had any herself. She was also not very skilled at translating small croaks.

The man tried to speak again. “P- pardon me, madam,” he creaked. His voice sounded dry, possibly from smoke inhalation, and slightly accented. Something stuffy.

He looked like he wanted to say something else. He passed out instead.

Willow sat there dumbstruck, staring without quite seeing. Waiting, maybe, but she didn’t know what for. After a minute, she tried shaking his shoulders, but he didn’t stir. Still, she wasn’t too worried for him; she could feel his chest rising and falling beneath her with breath, so he wasn’t dead. She supposed that was a good thing, though she didn’t have a ready reason why.

It suddenly occurred to her that sitting on top of him might not be good for his health, but she wasn’t sure how else to protect him from the fire. She shifted her hands and knees to the ground around him, making sure he was still covered but not pinned under her. She didn’t weight very much, but it struck her as the right thing to do.

She couldn’t help but wonder what her foster mother… Oh, what had that one’s name been? She didn’t care to try to remember. It wasn’t worth the effort, or the pain of accompanying memories. What would that old prude have said, if she could see Willow now? The thought brought a harsh laugh to her lips. Her ‘mother’ had caught her in a similar position before (lacking the fire), and had said a great deal of rather colorful things.

Whatever. _She_ wasn’t here now, and there were so many more important things to think about anyway. Like, say, the injury on her back. She’d nearly forgotten about it on her quest. Now that things had calmed down again, she found that it stung awfully. She looked around, the fire soothing any rising panic she might have otherwise been feeling. She couldn’t stay like this forever, so what should she do now? She needed to do something about her back, she needed to do something about the stranger, and she needed to do something about preparing for nightfall. She wasn’t sure which to fix first.

She attempted to stand while keeping the man close enough to keep him from combusting. Her aching muscles rebelled. It took a few tries before she managed it, and she found herself extremely grateful he was unconscious. Fortunately, he wasn’t very big or heavy, and Willow was stronger than she looked.

She dragged him in the direction she thought she’d come from. It didn’t take her long to realize that there was no way she could actually muscle this man all the way back to her base. So she only went as far as needed to get him away from the fire, back to the boring, inflammable stone place. It was a much longer trip backwards. Her back throbbed like an impatient person banging on a door, and her legs almost gave out on her. She dropped her cargo a handful of times, and each time it was a little harder to pick him back up. She wondered a few times why she was even bothering, and she was mildly disturbed at her lack of an answer.

She walked until she couldn’t feel the heat from her beloved fire before finally collapsing in exhaustion. The man rolled off to the side, then was still. He had been unconscious for an unfairly long time. Willow couldn’t help but feel bitter. She was cold, exhausted, parched, starving, and wounded. The sky was growing dark, and all she had to show for her efforts were the beginnings of another scar… and a _man_.

Willow scooted closer to him and rested her back on the cold stone ground. She hoped the chilly surface was doing his burns some good. She hated it. Oh, to be back in her fire… maybe if she ran, she could get back before it died? But she was so tired, it was so far… and it would suck if some new evil thing came and got her guy after she had gone to all that trouble. No. She wasn’t moving again until morning. Ugh, or maybe ever! Stupid aching feet, stupid aching back, stupid probably aching guy. Stupid world.

As the dim sky faded to pitch black, she flicked on her lighter and held it somewhat grudgingly between herself and the man. ‘ _Don’t let the sun go down on your anger_ ,’ she could almost hear her grandfather scolding. Bah. She would be angry whenever she *&!@$%0** well pleased! She stuck her tongue out at the man, just for good measure.

It was at that exact moment he chose to wake up, of course.


	2. Unthinkable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right where we left off, but Wilson's POV! He thinks too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been slooooow in coming! Which is absurd because I've had it written all along, just - holiday insanity, you know? Anyway, to those of you who've been waiting, thank you for your patience! For those of you who are new, thanks for checking out my silly story, be sure to comment below and let me know what you think! <3 
> 
> but no rly I'm feedback starved you don't need to say anything clever just say hi? pls? **forever alone**

Wilson had been in a great number of uncomfortable situations. An unfairly high percentage of said circumstances had taken place in the approximately three years he had spent in this harsh, illogical nightmare.

This was certainly one of the stranger ones. Questions darted through his mind too quickly for him to verbally express, and far too quickly for anyone to answer.

For instance, why was there a lady beside him? Did he know her somehow? She seemed almost familiar, in an inexplicable déjà vu sort of fashion. She certainly didn’t fit in with the dreary scenery. Was she a creation of this warped world? A hallucination? Why was she making such a rude face? Was he having some kind of dying vision of being rejected by an angel? Or a demon? Wilson was ashamed of himself for checking to see if she had horns or a halo. He wouldn’t have done anything so irrational if he hadn't been so disoriented. Or would he? He didn’t suppose he knew. People could be so unpredictable.

Her dark pigtails were crooked, he noticed. His fingers twitched. He wanted to fix them. How bizarre of him.

The lighting from her device wasn’t adequate for making a proper examination of the situation, but it should keep the darkness from consuming them, at least. That seemed like an appropriate thing to address first. Only a second or two had passed since Wilson had opened his eyes, he estimated. “Miss-” he started, but he fell into a brief coughing fit. Despite occasionally talking to himself, his voice had fallen into a woeful state of disuse. He scarcely remembered how to hold a normal conversation. Certainly not with a lady! How embarrassing.

“How – how long will your light endure?”

She blinked. Her eyes were very interesting, he couldn’t help but note. The irises were of an extraordinary color; a silver so faded, it glowed white against the contrasting darkness. They shimmered with the reflections from her lighter, making her eerily resemble the hallucination monsters.

Wilson again questioned whether or not she was human. He’d never have permitted such thoughts before, but now he couldn’t seem to stop himself. If she were a mere vision, how was her light able to illuminate the actual surroundings? If the surroundings were an illusion, than how could he feel the cold? If everything was real, how had he gotten here?

“Forever. I think.” The woman stated shortly. What was forever? Oh, yes, the light. Fascinating. Excellent. Superb. Yes, avoiding death by darkness was definitely high on Wilson’s priority list. He made a mental note to question how such a thing was possible later, and filed it away with countless other unexplainable things he was still waiting for answers on.

Wilson took a deep, ragged breath, and stiffly sat up. The woman stayed on the ground, her half-lidded pale eyes seeming to bore into him. He wished she would stop staring; it made him dreadfully self-conscious, if not downright paranoid. “Please pardon my rudeness, but do you harbor any ill will?” Ugh, he sounded terrible. What he wouldn’t give for a throat lozenge right now... perhaps he could fashion something himself in the morning.

Assuming, of course, he hadn’t been killed by then. He patted himself down, checking his waistcoat pockets. To his disappointment, the sharpest object in his current possession was a carrot. Supposing she decided to attack, he couldn’t very well stab her to death with a vegetable! That would be a very inhumane method to kill someone. If it were it possible at all, that is. Especially when taking into account that she seemed in remarkably good health, while Wilson hurt everywhere. Pain had become his new normal, and was hardly worthy of note these days, but seemed a legitimate factor in the equation regardless.

The woman chuckled dryly, startling him. “What are you, my therapist?” She asked.

What a strange question. What an interesting method to avoid answering his own question! He had gotten in a great deal of trouble at school for answering questions with questions. It vexed him to be on the receiving end. Something in his expression must have conveyed his distress. “If I was gonna kill you, I’d have left you in the fire,” She elaborated, in a rather irritable tone.

Oh, goodness gracious, the fire! What a humiliating experience. Wilson shifted gingerly and cleared his throat, covering his mouth with a fist. It felt as though he had been breathing fire, which was another ridiculous notion. He hadn’t the faintest idea what it would feel like to breathe fire, and he never would, and that was that.

She folded her arms behind her head and crossed her ankles. “And what about you, huh? How do I know you aren’t a creep?” Her tone of voice was surprisingly nonchalant, for such an accusation. He might have been offended, once upon a time. Scratch that, he was offended, but he could see where Willow was coming from. He had not had access to a looking glass in a very long time, but that was probably for the best. He knew he looked like a complete crackpot.

“Miss Willow, I assure you, I am a gentleman.” She didn’t need to know he’d been attempting to assess exactly how many times he’d need to hit her with a carrot to incapacitate her. It wasn’t like he would hurt anyone without cause… especially not a woman! Though, he suspected Willow was quite able of defending herself, notwithstanding her muliebrity.

She seemed to be absorbing what he’d said. Wilson dearly wished for his pocket watch. It would have been nice to know the time. He despised wasting time. He’d forgotten how remarkably slow other people could be. It had probably only been a few minutes since he had woken, but those minutes were precious. If rarity was a measure of worth, then there little more valuable than time, because no moment ever occurred twice.

Willow sat up suddenly. “Hey, wait a minute!” He couldn’t help but admire her timing. He’d just been thinking about minutes. “How the %$@#! did you know my name?!”

His face went slack. Oh, dear. Hadn’t she said it? No, upon a brief revisiting of their interactions thus far, they had failed to make introductions. What a foolish mistake on his own part! He thought back to when he was younger and even more confused. He used to have a knack for knowing things, and a fondness for teasing his friends by having them think of numbers for him to guess. They’d taken great pleasure from trying to trick him, by thinking of things that weren’t numbers, or changing their minds suddenly. He’d gotten annoying good at it. It wasn’t too long before the novelty of it wore off, and they’d come to realize that it was abnormal and disturbing. Someone’s parents eventually caught wind of it, and Wilson’s family had taken him to some kind of mental doctor. It had been decided by those wiser and older that he had an especially good memory, and a higher intelligence quotient, but the idea that there was anything mystical about his talents was preposterous. Everyone had proceeded to deny or explain away any such folly, most especially Wilson himself.

But here he was trying to decide whether or not he had some kind of superhuman ability, and Willow was waiting for a response. Granted, she hadn’t been waiting very long, but. What a silly thing to waste time upon! He started to respond, but was so wound up attempting to internally make sense of it all, he forgot how to speak properly. “I… I don’t think… I mean to say… er…” Oh, blast it all. Human tongues could be such utterly worthless creatures when they put their mind to it. While his mouth searched for a sentence that made sense, his brain sought a change of topic and found just the thing lurking in the form of a small streak of blood in Willow’s shadow. “Good Lo-Miss Willow, are you wounded?”

Despite that being a significantly clumsier change of topic than her earlier attempt, it was effective. She predictably twisted to see what he was talking about. Her arm swung the lighter, leaving Wilson in the thick darkness. He would have squeaked in surprise, but due to the hoarseness of his throat it came out as more of a grunt. “Miss Willow!” he objected. He could sense the night things shifting around him, surely delighted to find such a treat deposited in their midst. He would describe the sensation as someone walking on his grave, but he was still alive, and he fancied it was much more apparent than what anyone could feel through six feet of soil.

Willow turned back around, and the blessed light returned. He was a bit taken aback to find he was shivering, and he wasn’t sure if it was from fear, an aftereffect of being burned, or simply the cold. The temperature had been dropping over the past couple of days… But that was in no way helpful right now! He needed to focus! It had been too long since he had last slept, he decided. That must be why his thoughts were so scattered. That, being burnt, and being in close proximity to a female.

“I don’t have much in the way of medical supplies, but I could cauterize that for you?” That might be challenging with the lighter, though. Shame he didn’t have anything to stitch it up with. He checked his pockets again and found a spider gland. “I have an antiseptic,” he offered.

Willow’s bright eyes flashed first with distrust, then guilt. “Nah, I’ll be fine. You should probably use it on those burns,” She said. She had an excellent point. Wilson tore open the fleshy sac and began spreading the stinging liquid liberally to his blistered hands and face, which had been most exposed to the flames. Otherwise, he was in better shape than he would have expected, thanks to her heroism.

“Speaking of which,” Wilson mused aloud, “How did you avoid burning?”

She pursed her lips. She seemed to be weighing her options. “What’s it to you?” She sounded a bit defensive. He wasn’t wholly sure what it was to him. Baffling, to be sure. He’d very much so like to understand it, but it wasn’t strictly his business, and to antagonize the wielder of his only source of light seemed foolhardy at best. Curiosity killed the cat, he reminded himself. It was a rather new saying that he had become fond of, despite himself. He wasn’t a cat, for one thing, and for another, he was insatiably curious.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he found himself saying. Treacherous tongue. “I’ve simply never heard of such a thing taking place before.”

She narrowed her eyes and stared at the sky with a suspicious expression that Wilson thought might really be meant for him. He’d probably gone too far. He should probably stop now. He had still failed to introduce himself! And yet… Oh, what difference would it make, anyway?

“Miss Willow?” He asked in a rather meek voice. Or it would have been meek, if it weren’t so gravelly. Perhaps it was bit of both. “Are you human?”

Willow’s mouth did a queer little thing, squirming about like it was attempting to climb right off her face. She started to shake gently. He was increasingly alarmed, until she burst out in peals of laughter and it became obvious she had only been trying to withhold her mirth. Wilson’s shoulders slumped. He hadn’t been asking in jest, but perhaps it was better this way. With the unfortunate chance she was indeed inhuman, it was better she make light of the situation than become enraged. Who knew what she was really capable of? Perhaps she was entirely invincible. That would make hitting her with a carrot even more of a fruitless, hypothetical endeavor. Or vegetableless, as the case may be.

She laughed for what felt like a very long time. The longer she laughed, the less he cared about the reason, and the more he just enjoyed the sound. It had been a very long time since he had heard a genuine laugh. It sounded almost fairylike. Not that he believed in anything as ridiculous as fairies, which might have been a bit close-minded of him, considering some of the phantasmagorical things he had already witnessed. Willow now tentatively included in that subject.

She wiped her eyes, grinning cheekily. Her good humor lit up her whole face - metaphorically speaking, of course. It made her look… rather nice... and a great deal more human. “You’re weird. I like you,” She stated.

Wilson wondered if she had been testing him in some way. What a cold, calculating thing to do! He probably should have thought of it first.

He supposed he’d passed, anyway, and that was what mattered, though he could scarcely tell what mattered, or what was even real. He was, after all, conversing with a being that might not be human.

“I’m as human as you, doofus! I just have a thing with fire, that’s all.”

What a relief! Wilson was quite human. He was confident of it, despite having known her name without hearing it. That had just been… a lucky guess. His brow furrowed. He was pretty sure he was normal. He’d never had reason to question it before, anyway…

What ridiculous thoughts! Of course he was human, and of course she was, too! How absurd to have even entertained the notion… and yet… pah. He needed to think about something else, before this line of questioning drove him mad. What was a _doofus_? He was bemused she knew a word he didn’t. But then, maybe she was foreign. She did have an accent. Of course, they were both technically foreigners to the forsaken island serving as their prison.

She reclined on the stone ground again, this time on her side and facing him, presumably to avoid aggravating the injury on her back. It must not have been terrible, for she hadn’t seemed to be suffering at all, and she had turned down the spider gland. He wanted to see her wound, mainly out of curiosity, but dared not ask.

There was a lull in conversation. Willow stared at the little flame topping her lighter, and Wilson stared at her. He hugged his knees to his chest, wishing the little lighter gave off as much heat as a real campfire. If wishes were horses… He wasn’t sure he recalled how the poem actually ended, come to think of it. He supposed the world would be vastly overpopulated with horses. A chap could get crushed in a place like that. But he would have a distinct advantage, because he had carrots. 

He could go for a carrot right about now. He fished one out of his vest pocket. The rustling of fabric was offensively loud, in the otherwise very quiet setting. He tried not to fidget. Silence made him feel as if he were under a microscope. Back home, he’d always have a radio playing. This place was too blasted quiet.

“Do you always maul your vegetables before eating them?” Willow asked innocently. He jumped a bit. He had been worrying the pointy end between his fingers. Maybe he was subconsciously still assessing it as a murder weapon. Maybe she was onto him.

“No?” Now that he had to make conversation again, he missed the silence. Wishing was a dangerous pastime. Especially wishing that anomalously generated horses, which was in no way more possible than Willow or himself being inhuman. What frivolous delusions he was entertaining tonight! He irritably bit into the carrot. Not that it had done anything in particular to deserve it, besides be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps he wasn’t so different from the carrot in that regard. It was an unexpectedly chilling comparison.

“Sooooo, do you want me to guess your name, too, or…?” Willow squinted at him, and Wilson tried not to choke. “You look like an Edward.”

Wilson shook his head, swallowing. “Sorry, I – I should have introduced myself earlier-”

“Hey! You got my name, so it’s my turn! Give me three guesses?” She interrupted. At least she was in a good mood. He was clueless around women, but so long as they weren’t cross with him, he could bear it.

“If you insist,” he relented.

Willow laughed. “Okay, I got this. ‘Edward’ was, like, a practice round. I can’t see anyone calling you Ed.” He couldn’t either. She thought for a second, then snapped her fingers with both hands and pointed at him. He had never learned how to snap his fingers, himself. What was the point? Her fingers were the points. Ha ha. “Fred! Short for, uh, Frederick! Or Alfred!”

Wilson had never had the pleasure of being an elder sibling, but this experience matched other’s descriptions very well. He wasn’t sure if he was more irritated, or entertained. At least it broke the infernal silence. “Will that be one guess, or two?” It could have been worse – it could always be worse, in this place - but she could have gotten it on the first try. Wilson wasn’t particularly competitive, but that would have been unsettling.

“Just count Alfred,” She decided.

Amused, Wilson shook his head. “No,” He answered simply.

She crinkled her nose thoughtfully. “Sure you don’t have a perfectly normal name like Fred. Youuu have a really eccentric name, like… uh… Winston?”

That was so close, it was eerie. Perhaps they really had met before in passing. He would think he’d remember someone like her, though. She was difficult to ignore.

“I guess that’d make your nickname Win. Or Winnie.” She laughed. “I bet you have a name that can’t be turned into a nickname! Which is the best kind of name, y’know, because then people have to get inventive. This one guy used to call me Will all the time, so I burned a ton of his stuff.” She huffed softly. “He didn’t talk to me after that. Jerk.”

Wilson didn’t think he would, either, if anyone went about burning his notes.

“How about Quentin?” She hedged.

This was the most preposterous introduction he had ever suffered through, and yet, there was something so spunky about it. He heaved himself to his feet painfully, reached for his hat, remembered he didn’t have one, and bowed stiffly. “Miss Willow, my name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury. How do you do?”

She had shifted her arms underneath herself upon his sudden movement; it seemed as though she had been preparing to rise, but changed her mind. She instead held the lighter aloft, making sure his head wasn’t outside the small bubble of light. She didn’t have to hold it very high, as he wasn’t particularly tall. “How do I _do_?” She laughed, and though it held a sharp edge, it didn’t strike Wilson as mean-spirited. “Mr. Wilson Percival Higgsbury, I’ve been trapped in this  &%@#! place alone for an entire week. How do you _think_ I do?”

He sat back down. He hadn’t ever given the question much thought, it was just the proper thing to ask. But he was beginning to think she didn’t much care for what was proper. If he had known her better, he might have suggested she wash her mouth out with soap. Exactly what people did every time they brushed their teeth, actually. Dentists must have very delicate ears.

Wait. That didn’t matter. “You’ve only been here a week?” That meant that she had either found a separate route to this cursed island, or had been taken like himself. Had she built the Door? Or was there any chance she knew a way out? He squashed his hopes down, as if they were a pile of things being stuffed in a suitcase. If she had known the way out, she would have been long gone already. Unless she was so strange as to choose to be in this place!

“Yeah, that’s what I just said. How long have you been here?” Willow asked.

He had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he flinched in surprise when she spoke. “I haven’t seen another soul in… ten or eleven seasons.” Time was hard to measure; weather was not.

He wasn’t entirely sure if the pigmen had souls, come to think of it. Maxwell, of course, was no exception to his statement. Clearly any soul the brute may have once had was long gone. Willow’s presence alone was further proof of his heartlessness.

She made a small scoffing sound, like she didn’t quite believe him, but was impressed regardless. “No wonder you’re such a mess.” Though her words were harsh, there was a hint of something sympathetic in her melodic voice. Wilson usually detested being pitied and underestimated, but this felt somehow different. “I bet you know your way around pretty good,” She guessed.

_Well_. He knew his way around pretty _well_. Instead of correcting her, he gently removed his map from his pocket. It was his most treasured possession, what with everything else surely in ashes, and he was glad it was among what little survived. He indecisively paused before showing it to Willow. She might not be trustworthy! But it wasn’t like he was giving it to her to keep… she _had_ rescued him from the fire... And here she still was, sharing her light. She could have walked away so easily. Would he have, if he were in her shoes? He’d never know.

He unfolded the map, careful not to smudge it. He was rather proud of it, given his extremely limited resources in crafting it. He turned it so they could both see it, though he had seen it before countless times and had it mostly memorized. He watched Willow instead. She rolled over onto her stomach and held the lighter close enough to see, but far enough so as not to risk the paper. Her wide eyes flicked back and forth over the map as she chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully. She slowly and deliberately set her finger over the place they were. Wilson flinched, but didn’t object. She traced it over the stone wasteland they were in before stopping on the other side, in the middle of a meadow. There was a small streak now, and her fingertip was blackened from the charcoal.

“That’s where my stuff is,” She explained. It was only a few centimeters on the map, but a few hours’ worth of walking. That was where he’d been headed when the fire started, to check the berry bushes. She had probably already taken anything edible. He huffed in mild exasperation and pointed out where his own base was – or whatever was left, anyway. It was in almost exactly the opposite direction, not too far from where they’d first bumped into each other.

There was a lull in conversation as she studied the map. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as before.

“So… what are we gonna do tomorrow?” She finally asked. What assumptions that simple question held! To not only brazenly speak as though the two of them would still be together, but to believe unwaveringly that they would live to see the morning! Wilson had been like that once upon a time. But, what else could be expected? Here she was, freshly plucked from the world of ordinary men. Some small part of him was bitterly jealous. He had almost forgotten how much he missed home… his books, his work, his house, even normal things like clean clothes and fresh food. Everything the foolish took for granted. It hurt to think about, but his fear of forgetting and falling into compliance was greater than the pain.

“I need to see if anything remains of my camp,” He offered. He had been nearly ready for the oncoming winter, but he daren’t assume anything of use survived. How much time was left? A day? Two? The freeze would be swift and unforgiving. It was highly unlikely he could gather enough to make it. But he didn’t have a better choice than to try! He’d need supplies to make a campfire, first, but could he get to a source of wood before it was dark again? Surely the forest he’d been residing in previously had been reduced to charcoal and ashes. Which would make it fertile ground later for the planting of new trees, but it wasn’t particularly helpful at the moment. What about food? Tools? Weapons?

Wilson put his head in his hands, despairing. Sometimes it was easier to just ignore tomorrow. He recalled he had a captive audience. Or was a captive of said audience, as it were. He scrubbed at his eyelids with the palms of his hands wearily, concealing his melodramatic emotional display. He kept at it longer than was really necessary, because it felt kind of good, and as an added bonus, if his eyes happened to leak a bit, no one would know.

“Well, how ‘bout you go check there, then meet me at my place after? I mean, we probably have a better chance together anyway.”

Wilson let his hands fall from his face, and mulled over that point. Logically speaking, she was correct. More mouths to feed, but many hands make light work. Allegedly. He was a terrible team player and he knew it. Despite his distaste for the constant silence, he wasn’t entirely sure company was preferable. But what did his preference matter? Beggars can’t be choosers. “…It’s highly unlikely I could walk all that way before dark,” he stated slowly.

Willow made an odd face, puckering her lips to the side. “Make a torch, duh.”

He hated walking by torchlight. He always tripped or stubbed his toes. He’d have thought eating so many carrots would have improved his night vision by now, but apparently not - the darkness was nearly a tangible thing, it was so impenetrably thick. Sometimes he almost felt that if he stayed near it too long, it would stain him like wet ink.

“I doubt there’s anything flammable nearby to make a torch with,” He reasoned.

Willow’s face scrunched further. He was completely at a loss for what it meant. “Fine, I’ll lend you my lighter. I’ll start a fire the old-fashioned way when it starts getting dark.” She started to move the lighter towards him, and he instinctually leaned backwards away from the flame. Or her. Both, really.

She paused, and he wasn’t sure if she was changing her mind, or if his reaction had somehow offended her. “Er,” he started. He wasn’t sure what he thought he was going to say. He didn’t usually speak without thinking. He wasn’t even sure why he was trying. Blast it all, what was wrong with him?

“You just… you better return this when you’re done with it! ‘Cause, it’s important to me, alright? And I’ll find you if you steal it!”

He nodded quickly. He was more afraid of that threat than he probably should be, and yet, he felt a bit… honored. He didn’t know what emotional attachment she held for the device, but an infinite source of light was nothing to sneeze at in a world where the darkness had teeth.

She thrust it out to him. He accepted it cautiously, careful not to touch her fingers. Holding it by the base and rotating it slowly, he squinted and held it closer, inspecting it. There was a faded design on it. He wasn’t sure if it was a daisy or a cartoon sun. Otherwise, it didn’t really stand out; certainly not as a mystical, infinite light. He wanted to flick it on and off, but he didn’t want to die, so he restrained himself. Instead, he lowered it, holding it between them again and sharing the small puddle of dim light.

“Thank you, Miss Willow,” he said, meeting her eyes. She smiled at him, her feminine lips just a bit crooked. Wilson wasn’t sure what else to do, so he awkwardly smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **spirals out of control away from everything canon and proper English** what is happening and who let me behind the wheel? XD
> 
> I'll try to get the next chapter up faster than this one! Not that I really know what I'm doing here ;P 
> 
> Have a great new year's, everyone!! <3 Thank you for reading!


	3. Insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow's POV! Someone complained to me that Willow's 'curses' had the wrong number of symbols. I have made them wronger! Please fill them in with as inventive and absurd of combinations as you please and assume that is canon.
> 
> Also, what are these chapter summaries for? Duhrrr more author rambles?? Read the chapter, dudes. ;P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seriously not sure how seriously I'm taking this story. Seriously. What is this. What is the word serious. It's not me, that's what.
> 
> *kahemahemahem* ANYWHOOO please comment if you like this, if you read this, if you are yet breathing! Let me know what you think! I love you for being here, even though I question your choice in reading material! <3

Willow hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She groaned and rolled over. The pale sunlight shone harsh through her eyelids, and her back was stiff from her less-than-ideal substitute mattress.

Her spine creaked in protest as she sat up and yawned. She would literally kill for a cup of coffee right now.

Lacking a Starbucks, or anyone to murder for want of one, she popped a few berries into her mouth instead. They were extremely tart, and mushy from being carried about too long. Bleh, they would just have to do.

She reached for her lighter, hoping a little fire would wake her up some. It wasn’t there. She stood, scrabbling in a panic to find it before remembering she’d lent it to the guy. Fred. No, Wil... Wilfred. Wilson!

She stomped her foot, the little _bap_ echoing in the quiet, flat grey expanse. Now why had she done a silly thing like that? He’d clearly snuck away while she was sleeping. Gah, how could she be so stupid?? Now she didn’t have coffee, company, or fire! She kicked a pebble with all her might and watched it clatter away, irritable. This was a rotten morning so far.

But it wasn’t going to get better while she stood here and groused about it, and she had things to do. She squinted and looked around, trying to get her bearings before stomping off in the direction she thought her camp was. She crossed her arms tightly as the wind picked up. It whipped her long, tangled dark hair about madly and made her eyes sting. And they were tearing up from the cold, of course, not from loneliness or the ache of missing her lucky lighter. Brrr. Stupid weather. Stupid Willow for letting that Wilson escape with her last little bit of warmth!

She thought back to last night, when she’d handed it to him. It had seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do at the time… like something nice she could do for him, to make up for burning his place down. But hadn’t saving his bacon been enough of a nice thing? He’d be a nothing but a crispy husk by now, if she hadn’t saved him!

Or maybe it would have been more of a favor to let the kid roast. She’d wondered before what it was like to be burnt, having never experienced it herself. She had no clue how she was impervious to heat. Maybe it was hereditary, but she didn’t know much about her biological family.

She wouldn’t be thinking about it at all, if it weren’t for that Wilson asking all his questions. What a dork.

It was an unexpectedly comforting thought. If a dork like Wilson had made it so long in a dump like this, Willow was going to do just fine! She straightened up at the thought, scowling even more ferociously at the sky, daring it to prove her wrong. It didn’t respond.

Walking back to her camp was boring, compared to the day before. She found her mind replaying bits and pieces of her conversation with Wilson back at her, like a canker sore she just couldn’t leave alone. It was annoying. She thought of his hoarse, tenor voice that spoke much too quickly and squeaked too often. He was like a little mouse, all fidgeting and shuffling in the dark. And he’d asked if she was human! What had he thought she was, a ghost? She should have left him wondering. She should have told him she was a goddess! Willow the fire goddess, she liked that. Better yet, he might’ve believed her!

But in the end, she would have to learn to put up with him, because he had the map and the know-how, and whatever loot he was hopefully working to bring to her camp this very minute. She tucked her small hands into her sleeves in an attempt to thaw her frozen fingertips. Maybe he had found or made a coat, or a blanket. Coffee. Something nice and warm.

It was a relief to reach her camp and get to work, allowing each task to take over her idle thoughts and quiet the meaningless prattle. She took out her aggression on the nearby trees and saplings, gathering a sizable heap of firewood. There were a few berries left worth plucking and seeds scattered on the ground. Her shirt had sealed into the scab on her back, and it pulled every time she moved wrong, stinging angrily.

When the sky started to dim and stain the wild world in red and gold hues, she headed back. She killed time tidying and rearranging things, trying not to worry about her lighter, and, despite herself, Wilson. It wasn’t like dithering was going to make him walk any faster.

She built up a grand fire, roasting her measly fistful of squirrel food right in her hands. It felt so good, she took off her shoes and stuck her feet in the fire, too, letting the heat soothe her blisters.

The berries were much sweeter fresh and hot, but she wished she had more.

Night fell in earnest, and she hefted a few more logs on the fire, then propped her feet up on them, crossing her ankles and reclining. There was precious little to do in the dark. She idly picked the grit out from under her fingernails, wishing she were home. So maybe she didn’t have much of a home to return to, but it had food, and coffee, (aggravatingly slow) internet, and somewhere softer to lie down than the brittle grass prickling through her clothes. She wondered what she’d missed in the latest episode of her favorite TV show, and if anyone had noticed her missing yet. She wondered what was taking Wilson such a gosh darn long time.

She was on the brink of dozing off when she heard something crashing through the brush nearby. It sounded pretty big. Visions of shadow beasts, head-sized spiders, crazy ax-murderers and yet unknown horrors chased away her drowsiness. She went for her lighter, but it had failed to miraculously appear sans Wilson. “Show yourself!” She demanded, hefting herself to her feet. She plucked a burning stick from her fire and brandished it ferociously.

“Uff mrrrfn,” Whatever-it-was mumbled back, not sounding very monsterish.

Willow relaxed slightly, but didn’t lower her stick until Wilson bumbled his way into the safety of her fire light. Under one arm he carried a large, scorch-marked pot, and in his other hand he held her precious lighter. He had a spear in his mouth like a dog with a bone, and there were various bulges in his silly red vest, evidencing junk in his pockets.

It was her first time getting a really clear look at him. He looked so bad, she couldn’t help but giggle. His narrow, ruddy face was half buried in a wild bush of a beard – how had she missed that before? His gravity-defying dark hair shot up like a mad scientist’s, complete with a widow’s peak. He was wearing black fingerless gloves that went up past his elbows. He looked like he might fall over if she blew at him hard enough. He didn’t look like a man who had survived in the wilderness; he looked like a kid who had taken a wrong turn on his way to a steampunk cosplay.

But regardless, he was alive! Which meant he’d succeeded at bringing her lighter back, and was therefore forgiven. Her smirk lingered. “What took ya?”

He leaned forwards a bit and spat out the spear, letting it roll across the grass before half-collapsing to the ground. He gracelessly released the lidded pot and lighter, pulling his legs to his chest and letting his head fall in his hands. “Hurrrrgh,” he groaned, voice still raspy and whispery from smoke inhalation. It reminded Willow of an adolescent boy’s voice cracking as it began its descent. “My head,” he clarified through clenched teeth.

Willow let her stick and smile fall. “What, are you hurt?” She hoped not, but she wasn’t sure if that was out of pity, or an uncertainty of what to do if he said yes. If only she could just call 911 and make it someone else’s problem.

He didn’t reply, other than to rock back and forth, pressing on his skull like it might topple off if he didn’t keep it in place. After watching a minute, she cautiously reached over, snagged her lighter on a finger, and sat back down on her side of the fire. Well, any side of the fire was her side of the fire. Wilson could do whatever. He wasn’t any of her business.

She clicked her lighter on, and off. On, and off. Wilson mumbled something to himself very quickly and quietly, his breath coming in little shallow huffs. The steady rhythm of words sounded like he was counting, or trying to summon something sinister.

She shifted uncomfortably. “Wilson?” He didn’t show any sign of having heard her. “Hey! Wilson!”

His head snapped up, his round dark eyes blankly reflecting the fire. “Who,” he started softly. He was difficult to hear over the crackling of the fire, and he sounded utterly baffled. “Who – what – what is that dreadful racket?”

Willow squinted at him. “What racket?”

He whipped his head to the side so quickly she heard something in his neck creak. Gross. “Voices, whispers, vibrations, at three hundred forty-three meters per second, round to sixty decibels. Music…” He mumbled quickly, and Willow only caught about half of it.

“Huh?” She interrupted.

“No!” Wilson stood suddenly, stumbling over the cooking pot in his haste. He veered to the side and hopped up and down furiously, like he was crushing something beneath his feet. Had something caught fire? “No hands! No touching! Get away!” He squawked, gestured, and stomped away from the fire, glowering at the ground. Willow was worried for a moment that he’d keep going, right off into the dark, but he stopped at the edge, peering out into the void. He looked back and forth, motions jerky like a rusted machine.

“What the *!#$&*%@*, Wilson!”

He jumped comically high in surprise, before turning around and around, eyes wide. “Did you hear that? What - who goes there? I know nothing! Do not disturb!”

Willow crossed her arms, resisting the urge to run away, hit him, or do both. “You’re the disturbed one, weirdo!” Her voice had raised in pitch. She scowled to compensate. It was rather pointless, as Wilson was not looking at her, or anything, it seemed.

“What is this wretched place? What is its purpose? I don’t know, I don’t understand, I don’t remember. Lost! All is lost. They will be taken before their times. They never introduced themselves, nor asked, the master. The nameless. The lost. Lose what, you incorrigible! Crooked! Never asked her name, lost what was lost already. Didn’t wish to be found; burned the bridge.”

“What?” Willow was having a harder time hiding her unease.

Wilson continued to spin about in place, searching for something. He tripped over his own feet a few times, but didn’t fall all the way, instead almost dancing. He ran his shaky hands through his tangled hair, and when his fingers snagged on a snarled knot, he clumsily tore it out. “No! I don’t know what she was, I don’t know! ‘As human as you.’ Do we still have it, what made us human?! Sentience, sentimentality, sanity? A savior? A story? Shhh… Stop. What’s to stop us from waking somewhere, someone else, waking as monsters? We were wrong. Wrong! ‘And men were scorched with great heat, and blasphemed the name of God, which hath power over these plagues; and they repented not to give him glory.’ Is this our punishment? Your experiment? My nightmare, Their game? Did we begin this? Did we end it? Over and over and over, who would dare to break the pattern? The broken? What have we done, why were we here, why - why don’t I _remember?!_ ” His voice had been gradually raising in volume, but cracked on the final word. He fell into a coughing fit.

 

Willow watched, mildly fascinated, mildly horrified. Very slowly, she walked her fingers back into the fire, wrapping them around one of the sturdier blazing sticks. She wasn’t sure if she’d rather he give her a reason to use it, or not.

 

“No more music!” he wheezed, red-faced from coughing. Huffing and puffing, he resumed his stomping. “Orchestrated-choreographed-planned!” He spoke so fast, now, it all sounded like one long garbled word in a different language. “Are-my-words-scripted? Why-am-I-still-speaking,” he gasped for air, “and-why-won’t-it-stop? I-don’t-know. You-don’t-know! Empty-heads-top-empty-hearts-beating-on-doors-of-empty-houses. No. No-one-is-home, pretty-little-fire-bird. Th, there-is-no-light, n-no-beauty-here! You-aren’t- _real! Leave-me-be! S-stop-laughing!_ ”

His words were about as understandable as Willow’s doctor’s handwriting. She didn’t even know if he was addressing her. Something about his speech rubbed her wrong anyway. “Sh-shut up!” She pointed the stick at him like a gun, holding it with both hands to keep it steady. He didn’t acknowledge her, he was too busy fussing with his vest, staring into nowhere.

“Ladybird-ladybird-fly-away-home, your-house-is-on-fire, your-children-alone. You-don’t-want-to-go-home? Perhap-perhaps-you-never-had-one. Fly-from-place-to-place-accelerate-but-time-runs-always-faster, can’t-outrun-your-past, your-blood, your-fire. Don’t-you-remember? They-saw-always-only-what-they-wanted-to, to-see. We-glimpse-through-tinted-spectacles. What-then-did-you-look-for? Idon’tsee-Idon’tunderstand, Idon’t _know, I-I-don’t-”_ He cut off abruptly, hitting himself rather forcefully in the forehead. “Pounding, pounding,” he whispered.

“Hey, ho, nobody home, meat nor drink nor money have I none…” He was singing in a low, husky voice, keeping tempo with the _smack, smack_ of his fist on his head.

Willow stood. “Wilson!” Her voice was so stern, she could have passed for one of those jerks that fostered for the praise, pocket change, and bonus punching bag. It was a distressing thought.

Wilson blinked, looking at her, looking through her. He tipped his head to the side, the flood of words mercifully pausing. “Why must you utter such _nonsense,_ ” he whined childishly.

“Because it’s YOUR NAME,” Willow snarled, having had enough.

“Name,” he mouthed the word. “Try to remember… a rose by any other name. I… liked roses. Flowers! Flowers, flowers, flowers,” he blathered. He reached towards the hand Willow held her lighter in, but seemed to think better of it. With shaking, hasty motions, he fashioned a torch out of materials in his pockets, lit it on the campfire, and disappeared into the night. She could hear his voice long after his light had been sucked up by the abyss, rattling senselessly onwards, but it wasn’t long before that, too, was imperceptible.

She stood, swaying, unsure if any of their exchange had been real… if it could even be called an exchange when she’d hardly gotten a word in edgewise. Was he going to come back? Did she care? She clutched her burning stick close, extinguishing all but the tip. Wilson was gone. _Good riddance,_ she told herself. _I’ve had enough insanity to deal with for a lifetime or three. He won’t come back, his torch will go out, he’ll get lost, or... whatever. It’s better this way._

But she didn’t quite believe herself.

Time crept on. She tried to sleep, but couldn’t get him out of her head, now more than ever. _Ever_ being, what, a day and a half? What the heck, he was still a stranger! Better him than her!

She rolled over and wondered if anyone had missed him, yet. She’d have noticed if his funny, pale face had been on the news. She wondered how old he was. Old enough to grow that wacky beard, assuming it was real, but otherwise… who knew, maybe around her age. Maybe he was kinda young to die.

She sat up. Maybe she should look for him. He still had the map, and… and she felt bad, darnit! What was so bad about feeling bad?

She carried her lighter one step into the dark, two steps. The chilling, murky void enveloped her, consumed her tiny, insignificant silhouette. “Wilson?” She called, but her small voice was swallowed up by the emptiness.

She stood there, willpower wavering like the little flame atop her lighter. She was very short even wearing her high heels, but she still curled in on herself, making herself smaller in an instinctual need to keep well within the small range of light.

A gust seemed to blow right through her clothes and skin and freeze her blood. A shiver overtook her whole spine. Ugh, she hated the cold so much!

She returned to her fire with a heavy heart. She’d never find him in the dark, anyway… but she’d look first thing in the morning. He probably didn’t go far. Yeah, maybe he’d be fine. Maybe. He’d made it this long, couldn’t he rough it a few more hours?

It began to snow, fat white flakes blanketing the ground and bringing an even deeper level of silence. She sat in her fire, wishing it were a great deal bigger and hotter. Wishing the grass would catch, the whole world, and replace the nasty snow with soft, warm ash.

The sky was getting a little lighter around the corners when Wilson returned, shivering violently and carrying an armful of flowers.

Willow nearly leapt up and hugged him, but the impulse died the second it was formed, so she clenched her fists and hugged herself instead, safe in the confines of her fire. “Care to explain?” She hated the waver in her voice. Hoped he wouldn’t notice it, or would blame the cold.

He sighed and crouched near enough to the fire to thaw, far enough to be well out of reach. “Not particularly,” he answered, his calm a sharp contrast to his panic earlier. He piled his flowers in his lap, twiddling a few in his fingers.

She didn’t know what to think of that. Of anything. Of this weirdo in particular. “Lose your mind often?” She half-joked, unsure he’d had one to start with.

Wilson glanced up, meeting her eyes for a split second. He ducked his head abashedly, playing with his flowers. “Please, give me a moment.”

Willow opened her mouth to argue, or ask something, or just to be difficult, but no words came. So she quietly sat and watched his nimble fingers weave and twist flower stems together with the ease of practice, and the delicacy of someone who cared way too much.

He broke the silence first, whistling. The tune was almost familiar, but she had no idea where she’d have heard it. She tried to place it right up until he seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped himself by placing a flower between his teeth. To her amusement, it stayed there until he had finished his flower crown. He daintily placed the wreath on his head and pulled the flower out between his teeth, eating the petals and tossing the stem aside. He stood, letting the remaining flowers fall. “I don’t believe I ever thanked you properly for rescuing me from the fire,” he started, voice even and careful. He scratched his beard, almost looking at her. “…Or for sharing your light that night. I suppose I owe you my life, along with an explanation and an apology.”

Well, the awkward, eccentric-but-not-threateningly-insane mandork (tm) was back. Now Available with Flowers and Melodramatic Speeches. Willow snorted and tried to disguise it by clearing her throat. “What is this, a Disney movie?” Next, she’d probably learn that he spoke Woodland Animal, and that a true love’s kiss would take them back home.

Which was a weird, unwelcome thought. She shrugged it off. He stared at her strangely, which seemed rather backwards to her. She raised an eyebrow at him to even out the score a little. She won their little staring contest hands down, Wilson shuffling his feet and squinting off into the distance. “Is Disney a place? Is that where we are?” He sounded confused, but also a little hopeful.

Willow burst into peals of laughter. She didn’t mean to, she was (probably) as startled as he was, but the absurdity all hit her at once, and then the release of pent-up emotion felt so good she couldn’t stop. “N-no,” she hiccoughed, once she could breathe again. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what Disney is?”

Wilson’s face was pink from the burns and the cold… and probably from being laughed at. “No?”

“Wow. That’s pretty sad,” She smirked, not feeling genuinely sorry for him. “Your childhood must have sucked.”

Wilson rubbed his fingertips on the insides of his forearms, wrinkling his fabric gloves. He tipped his head to the side and made a face between pouty and stumped. “How is that even remotely relevant?”

She spluttered on her slowly fading amusement. “It was a stupid joke, don’t sweat it. Any of it. Bonds of eternal gratitude or slavery or whatever lifted. Unless and until I need you for something,” she tagged on with a mischievous grin.

He still looked confused, but relieved, too. “I really am sorry-” he started.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re good,” She waved him off. She didn’t really want to hear it, she just needed to see it didn’t happen again. She rose from her fire, missing its warmth the second she stepped out, but in a lingering good mood anyway. She stretched and began rummaging through her things, trying to decide what she’d need with her during the day.

“What happened?” Wilson’s voice was timid, but less squeaky, a little less raspy. More human, if that made any sense.

“What, while you were gone?” Willow didn’t bother looking over her shoulder. She yawned. “Nothin’ much.” She pointlessly rifled through stuff, looking for food when she knew there wasn’t any. Oh, for a cup of coffee. Anything for a cup of coffee.

“No, ah…” he trailed off mumbling. Willow deigned to turn and face him. “Come again?”

“What did I say last night?” He asked rapidly, fidgeting.

She blinked. “Do you remember anything?”

“No.” He stooped and folded his arms, looking even smaller and poutier. “Maybe,” he amended. “Was he here? The man with the cigar?”

Willow inhaled sharply, the cold air like needles in her lungs. “The tall, mafia-looking dude?”

Wilson took a step closer, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you? Is he…?” He looked around anxiously. He sure did that a lot.

“No, he didn’t – no one was here,” Willow clarified. “I mean, it’s probably nothing, not even the same guy, just some weirdo in a suit I kept running into back home. I wasn’t even sure he was real.”

Wilson stroked his chin, black gloves camouflaged with his messy beard. “But why-”

“Wait wait wait, he’s here?” Willow glanced around, as if he might be lurking behind a nearby tree. He wasn’t - or if he was, he was doing a good job of it.

“He…” Wilson squinted up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the glare with a hand. “I suspect he isn’t entirely here. I’ve caught glimpses of him sometimes in my peripheral vision, or thought I smelled his smoke on my clothes… don’t you feel it yourself, like someone’s watching?” Willow wasn’t fond of that idea at all. “I’ll admit, I was skeptical of his existence as well, but if you’ve seen him, too… well, I’m not wholly convinced you’re real, either, for that matter.” His critical eyes skimmed her up and down, searching for a flaw, a glitch.

“Mhmm. You’ve said as much,” she mused. She wasn’t used to being genuinely treated like a delusion. It was more disorienting than she’d have guessed. Maybe she wasn’t real, but so what? If she was… a dream, a story, whatever, then she’d be a heck of a figment of someone’s imagination, and that was that! In the meanwhile, Wilson was raising his eyebrows at her, like he wanted her to continue, but was afraid to ask.

“Uh… yeah, you said something about…” She’d been replaying his words on and off all night, but now that she tried to think of anything in particular, it danced away on the tip of her tongue. Probably a side effect of the impromptu all-nighter combined with the cruel lack of caffeine. “Music, and fire… oh, there was some deep $@&#$%*&* about life and humanity. I bet you’d be somethin’ else drunk,” she joked.

Wilson chuckled, just once, mistakable as a cough. “A drink would be spectacular,” he sighed wistfully.

“I know a pretty sweet little place, I’d show it to ya when we get back,” Willow offered with a wink, without really thinking about it. Heaven knew they’d have earned it.

Wilson looked rather crestfallen, though. “I’m not sure there is a way back. I’ve walked the island’s perimeter, and it’s a long, steep drop to the ocean. Even if we safely reached the water, there would be no way to navigate. No telling how far we are from society…”

“Are you telling me we’re stranded together on an island with no beaches?” Willow blew a raspberry. Totally not cool. She didn’t care for the ocean, but sun-warmed sand was nice. Like snow, but with none of the bitter cold misery.

Wilson just coughed rather awkwardly into his fist. “Yes. Well. Here we are, killing precious daylight. I should be able to get everything else left in a single trip. We’ll need food – oh, there might still be…” He lifted the lid of the crock pot and made a face at the contents. “Terribly burnt meatballs.” He pried a few of the crisp, black globs out of the pot, and popped one in his mouth experimentally. He nearly choked swallowing it. “You’re welcome to what’s left,” he offered halfheartedly.

Willow stuck her tongue out, but she knew better than to turn her nose up at their only food. “I’ll, uh, shop for groceries while you’re gone,” She offered, wishing it were that easy. Better yet, if they could just order up a *@!#&$*%* pizza.

He was tipping a bit, like he wanted to start walking, but his feet were rooted to the spot. Or maybe that just was the breeze, about to knock him right off his feet. “Do you know how to craft a trap? There are a few rabbit holes that way,” he pointed.

She nodded, then more realistically shrugged. “I’m good with DIY stuff, I’ll figure it out.”

Wilson nodded back, rubbed his hands together, and then tipped his flower crown to her, earning a snort. “Stay warm, Miss Willow,” he suggested. Then he was off, moving surprisingly quickly for his short legs.

What a weird send-off. It was fitting, from such a weird little man. She smirked, then waved and called after him, “You, too!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to write an insane rant:  
> Uhhhhhm. How 'bout some repetition? Can we spice that up with some foreshadowing? Let's see here, a dash of fourth wall breaking... mmm and some stuttering to retain color. Bake at -20 degrees for half a chapter length and that should be... mediocre at best. Yup I got this guys.


	4. Unwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's POV again!!
> 
> **just your friendly neighborhood content warning** (spoilers below obvs)  
> This chapter is the most graphic so far? Just, y'know, a li'l coughed up blood and death no biggie amirite. Just didn't want anyone to be caught off guard?  
> Oh,,, and nudity. But nothing sexual so it's only as dirty as your imagination ;P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHOY, MATIES!! Do you see that hideous thing, yonder on the horizon?? I do believe it is the (dangerously absurd) PLOTLINE. Yes indeedee, this is where we divert from canon. More. Than we have already. Yes; the previous three chapters were effectively an extended prologue. So, hoist the mainstay, hold on to your hats, get hype, folks, *cracks knuckles* it's about to get weird

Wilson inhaled deeply, enjoying the crisp feel to the air, even as it stung his respiratory system. He watched his little cloud of breath roll away on the wind, reminiscent of a heavy smoker’s, but with none of the stench. A small smile snuck onto his face, stealthily hiding behind his facial hair.

For such a terrible, deadly thing, the winters in this place were truly beautiful. Deadly things were far too easy to come by these days, but sometimes he forgot that there was still beauty, even here. It was in the faint, sweet floral scent from the flowers still illogically in bloom around his skull; the glittering, untouched sea of white; even the sudden, seemingly unmerited bouts of laughter from another living person. He felt he’d had a fog over his mind for a long time, and it had only just begun to lift. It must have been something in the air… likely, the toxic flowers had an airborne, hallucinogenic pollen. That, at least, was easier to believe than the alternative: that his mind was lost regardless.

But that was irrelevant, because he knew the antidote, so he and Willow would be fine, so long as they didn’t run out of wildflowers.

Ah, Willow, who was very real, and very human. He shook his head ruefully at the hazy, almost unbelievable memory of the previous two nights. She must think him a sap and a nutcase, and he wasn’t sure she’d be wrong. It _would_ just so happen that his first interaction with another rational creature took place while he wasn’t thinking clearly. Was he ever really thinking clearly?

He assumed Willow was rational. She was a strange one, to be sure, but surely lucid? She was a fiery little thing. Or perhaps fireless would be a more accurate description. He hadn’t imagined up the forest fire, the burns, had he? Good heavens, women were complex enough without being fireproof! Was she the only one? Wilson had a sudden, paranoid thought – what if all females were like that, and they just left men out of it? It might have explained why they cooked, did the ironing, but why hadn’t they taken over the world yet? Or had they? He hadn’t been there for a bit, but - Oh, that was nonsense. This one was something special, and she was welcome to take this world over, if she deemed it worth the trouble. Was there a limit to the heat she could withstand? Did acid burn her, did she sunburn? How had her clothes kept from scorching? Actually, maybe he’d better not question that one.

Having an inflammable companion in possession of an infinite fire wasn’t a situation he’d have thought himself or anyone in, even in his wildest fantasies, but he found it gave him hope of all things. Surely it would come in handy. At the very least, someone else could kick out the occasional grass fire without fear. Perhaps it would give them an edge over winter, even – he didn’t need to supply her with a thermal stone, if she could carry around the real McCoy.

His mind continued to drift, his numb feet leading him on by muscle memory, better than ankle-deep in the snow. Planning and pondering kept the cold from bothering him much, and though he had to stop and thaw by a fire every so often, he made better time than his previous trips.

Re-entering the crisped husk of the forest damped his good mood slightly. The fire had been such a needless loss, but he supposed he was glad he wasn’t part of the wreckage. He really didn’t remember much of what had transpired, and he had no clue how the fire had started… but still felt he could have prevented it. At least the destruction was contained to a relatively small area.

And there it was, the wreckage of his temporary ‘home’. The melted and misshapen mounds of metal would have been unrecognizable to anyone else, but Wilson still had memorized where each machine had been. Not only had he invented them, but he’d stubbed his toes on the lot of them enough times in the half-light, his poor feet would probably never forgive or forget.

In the end, losing his camp would likely prove a small price to pay for having found his companion. He felt ambivalent about Willow for the time being, but opinions aside, he hadn’t been going much of anywhere by himself. Perhaps she knew something he didn’t. He’d like to think he had the answers, or at least the capacity to figure them out, but any common fool could be proud and lost, and it would be so far preferable to be meek and _home_.

But standing sullenly in the middle of a forest fire gone to ash wasn’t getting anything done. His fingertips were turning bluish again, so he cleared the snow off his old fire pit and coaxed a little fire into being. What was left with any value…? A few tools were salvageable, and his thermal stone still appeared to be functional. While it thawed, he gathered as much charcoal as would fit into his pockets. He was on his way back by dusk, and though he dreaded walking in the much colder evening, it was marvelous to see the snow reflecting the sunset like an illusion of the forest set to flame once again.

Something flashed red in the corner of Wilson’s eye, almost indiscernible in the amber glow from the sky and the snow. He stopped and squinted, tensed and ready to run but curious. It wouldn’t be a redbird, they all mysteriously migrated overnight at the first sign of snow. Was it a reflection of the sky in some beast’s eye, looking back at him? But there was no motion, no sound but the wind whistling around the evergreen’s charcoal skeletons, his heartbeat in his ears.

He stood as still as possible, albeit shivering from the cold. Nothing changed. Perhaps he’d only been seeing things again? His head felt fine, but that didn’t prove anything. In the end, he couldn’t stand here forever, and if there was something out there that felt like chasing him, he was only delaying the inevitable.

He’d just determined to put it out of his mind and keep walking when he saw it again, just a bright spark. He wouldn’t have likely even noticed it, if he hadn’t been wondering about it already. This time, he took a step backwards, trying to figure where his head was at when it had been in his line of sight. There! It looked like something small on the ground, and it must have been shiny, as it didn’t seem to cast its own light but was rather at an angle to reflect the sun.

It wasn’t so far out of his way… perhaps he’d better go check it out. One could never be too sure in this place. Or any place, really. Certainty was blind faith awaiting someone to disprove common opinion. Knowledge was power until it was wrong.

Having reached a decision, he started off again, following the light. He sped to a jog, hoping to find whatever it was while the angle of the light still made its hiding place obvious, winking at him from between the trees. His own shadow loomed longer and longer before him, a deformed creature slipping in and out of existence where the sun’s fingers still caressed the earth.

There was something different in the air here… a smell of smoke still lingered. The charred trees seemed to lean towards Wilson, unable to bear the weight of the snow in their brittle boughs. Some did litter the ground, and he had to slow his pace to avoid tripping over any branches. He hoped none of them would choose that unlikely moment to fall on him. He tried to write over the trepidation in him mind by thinking nice thoughts about the looming charcoal. You bring about what you think about, or so he’d heard.

Then, he stumbled to a halt. There, in a little puddle of melted snow, a sliver of something brilliant red twinkled up at him. It looked like a fragment of stained glass. He shifted his gear so he had it all under one arm, then stooped to pick it up, studying it at eye level. It had a diameter of about a centimeter and a half, and was a bit over four centimeters in length. It had a brilliance to it, like a precious stone, perhaps, but the cut didn’t seem man made, or, if it was, the jeweler had terrible shaking hands. It didn’t have a single straight edge and the tip was sharp as a shiv. It nicked his thumb and drew a bead of blood. He wiped it mindlessly off in the snow.

It was surely worthless; even if there had been someone to buy it, its shape ensured it wouldn’t bring any noteworthy sum. Even so, he couldn’t quite put it down, rolling it across his palm so the light danced within it. It was uncannily mesmerizing. Perhaps it had belonged to Willow and she’d dropped it in the fire? Or, even if it didn’t, perhaps she’d like to have it. Didn’t women appreciate shiny things? But he wasn’t keen on claiming to have knowledge of any sort about women. They might very well be fireproof, a fella could never be too sure.

Seemingly all at once, darkness fell. How much time had he wasted goggling at this trinket? Without thinking much of it, he stuck it between his teeth like a cigar, so he would have a hand to hold a torch with. Blast it all, but he did loathe walking in the dark. How he’d made it back in once piece the previous evening with a shattered mind was entirely beyond him. He only remembered fragmented bits and pieces… the fire, Willow’s lighter… something about hands and music. He hummed a few measures of a melody, halfheartedly attempting to recall, but mainly to fill the lonely darkness a bit. Fireflies glistened in the distance, but went out as he passed by. No stars, there were never stars… or maybe Wilson’s eyesight had grown weaker, but there weren’t any eye doctors around to ask. Unless Willow was a doctor, but that seemed even more unlikely than her talent with fire. She didn’t have the patience for it. He snorted at his own deplorable joke.

As if the world were offended at his sense of humor, he promptly tripped, only barely holding onto his torch and spectacularly dropping everything else. He grumbled, brushing snow off his clothes before picking up his things and going on. Ow, he’d twisted his ankle. Darn rabbit holes, a chap could practically fall down one of those! How were the rabbits safe from the dark down there, anyway? He had a momentary, nonsensical vision of a family of bunnies surrounding a candle. Perhaps the darkness only had a taste for human flesh, or his in particular. It didn’t seem to bother the other monsters at all, which was enormously unfair.

Well, perhaps he would yet have his revenge on the little pests, if Willow had had any success at hunting today. He hoped so, he was famished! He almost fancied he could smell meat now, and though it was likely a placebo, it put an extra spring in his step.

He’d stopped to light fires as few times as possible on his way, so he was cold to the bone by the time he spotted the light from Willow’s camp. He ran the last twenty paces, forgetting to tread carefully and watch for rabbit holes. It was only when he opened his mouth to call out to her that he realized he’d lost the gem. He slowed momentarily, vaguely disappointed. He must have dropped it when he’d fallen, but perhaps he could go back and find it later, in daylight. Or perhaps it didn’t matter! He _did_ smell something edible, and his stomach was going to turn itself inside out if he didn’t put something in it.

He set his things down inside the little pool of light, eager to warm his hands by the fire – but Willow was facedown in it, asleep. He froze, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter lest he wake her. It was plausibly the most absurd thing he’d ever seen, her slender arms wrapped around a blazing log like it was a teddy bear. She’d nearly snuffed it out entirely under herself, but he wasn’t sure how to go about building up a fire with a woman in it, and he didn’t want to wake her.

Besides, if she woke to find him staring at her, who knew what she might think? He averted his eyes, face hot. He’d just build up a second fire, that’s what he would do. It was a waste of wood but that was alright. He’d just selected a few good logs when Willow reached out and batted at his feet weakly, like a cat after a small skittering object. “Shuddup, whozat!” She slurred sleepily. Wilson halted, scarcely breathing. Was she talking in her sleep?

No such luck. She pushed up on her hands like a seal, squinting at him. “#$?**!0&)*!.”

“Good evening to you, too, Miss Willow,” he replied. He held the end of a log out towards her, like a peace offering. She used it to pull herself to her feet, taking it and the others from him and arranging them on the fire. He hovered, amused and unsure what to say. He was saved the trouble by his stomach growling angrily.

Willow snorted, gesturing towards the crock pot with her head. “There’s food, you dork.” That was all the invitation he needed. It looked like she’d made shish kebabs. He wasn’t sure what she’d put in them, but they smelled so good, it hurt. He scarcely managed to mutter his thanks before tearing into one.

Once Willow was finished building up the roaring fire, she pulled another log over to sit on, sticking her feet in the fire and stretching sleepily. Wilson chose to hunker down on the other side, somewhat farther away from the flames. “What time is it?” She whined.

He nearly went to pull his pocket watch out, but of course, he still didn’t have one. He looked up at the round, very distant moon. “Some unholy time of the morning,” he guessed.

Willow squinted at him. “Figures. How’re you still awake?”

He had to think about that seriously. How long had it been since he’d slept…? It must have been a while. But she was looking for an answer, and he had a mouthful of food. Unwilling to stop eating long enough to answer yet, he shrugged.

Willow yawned exaggeratedly. “Why am _I_ awake?”

Well. “Sorry, I hadn’t meant to – you could go back to sleep,” he suggested, shuffling awkwardly.

She looked tempted for a second, then quite suddenly she sat up as tall as she could (which was not very high,) clapped her hands, and pointed dramatically at him. It was rather startling. “You! Man! With a beard! Fffred. No. Wilson!”

He was probably the only man here, how hard could it be to remember his name? But she had just woken up, he supposed. “Yes?” He cautiously replied.

“Do you remember your promise of eternal bonds of slavery or whatever from yesterday?” She inquired, tone serious, if a tad dramatic.

Wilson blinked and leaned back, alarmed. “Nnno?? Was that something I said while I was-”

“I have decided,” Willow interrupted, leaning forwards, “What you may do for me.”

Wilson swallowed hard. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to flee. He’d extinguished his torch, but if relit, it would burn for a while longer, and –

“Do you have any coffee?” She asked, eyes wide and sparkling.

What? No. “What?”

“Coffee,” she elaborated, gesturing. “Do you know how to make coffee, is there coffee here?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to meet Willow on caffeine. But that was a moot point. “I know… _knew_ how, but no, there isn’t any here.” That he’d found thus far. Even if there was, who knew what odd side affects it might cause? There really was something in the air in this place…

She slumped again, crossing her arms tightly. “You know what? Nuh-uh. That doesn’t work for me, no me and you, we’re gonna get out of this dump and get us some _coffee_.”

Highly questionable grammar aside, Wilson didn’t know what to say to that, so he went back to eating. Her optimism was so bright it hurt to look at, with his eyes that had grown so adjusted to the dark. Metaphorically speaking. He couldn’t see anything in the dark. Or, anything _real_.

Perhaps the silence didn’t suit Willow, as she quickly found another topic. He’d brought it on himself, really, waking her so rudely. “Hey, I had this crazy dream, y’know, and I think you might’a been in it. Some $%*#^&!*?%* about Disney princesses,” she blurted. Wilson still didn’t know what that was – sounded like a fairytale? - But she sure seemed fond of it. She giggled. “And you had this stupid dress on!”

He nearly choked. That sounded more like a nightmare than a dream; perhaps it was alright he’d woken her after all! “You must have quite the imagination,” he spluttered at last.

She grinned evilly. “Oh, you have no idea, buddy. I used to have this friend, a real troublemaker, and we’d plan these terrible things. Terrible. There was this one time…”

She kept talking, but he unintentionally tuned out. With no warning whatsoever, he felt quite ill. He rotated the skewer in his hand. Was the meat sour, or undercooked? It looked and tasted fine, and Willow was well. Her animated retelling of past adventures certainly seemed lively enough.

He’d probably just been eating too fast.

“…You should have seen his _face_ when he woke up!” She crowed. Wilson nodded agreeably. He didn’t know who the _he_ was that she’d been talking about, but he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the bloke, whatever it was Willow had done to him. He really ought to have listened more carefully, in case he was to share the stranger’s fate. Also because that was the polite thing to do, and he really _was_ interested in what she had to say, but his thoughts, so collected this morning, were scattering like frightened ants from a trampled nest. Bother.

“…and Wilson, if you fall asleep on me, I swear I’m gonna walk by when you’re least expecting it and wake you up,” she threatened mischievously. It took him a moment to mentally catch up, but he couldn’t help but chuckle sheepishly.

That proved a mistake; laughing hurt, too. What on earth? Or wherever he was, which was… presumably still on Earth. He surreptitiously scratched his stomach, as if that would somehow provide a solution to his predicament. It didn’t. He set the remains of his dinner to the side carelessly, unable to stand the smell of it any longer. It was the strangest sensation… it felt much like a burn, and he’d think he’d know, having just been caught unaware in a forest fire the other day. But the food hadn’t been _that_ hot. His hands and tongue were fine. Perhaps he was coming down with something? He hadn’t been sick the whole time he’d been here, unless homesickness counted. But he could have caught something from Willow. The time frame was right.

“Hellooo? Anyone at home?” She had leaned through the fire, and was waving her hand in front of his face. Wilson blinked and jerked backwards, only just catching himself before falling flat on the ground. Was his vision actually blurring, or was the pain making it hard to focus? The smoke could be to blame, too. But pain was nothing new and not an adequate excuse for his thoughtlessness.

Think. Willow had asked a question. He shook his head slightly, as if jolting himself back to the present – but he’d been in the present all along, in a manner of speaking, so it didn’t really serve any purpose but further disorienting him. “Erm… technically, no, I don’t suppose there is, not that I’ve been back to check,” he answered, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Depending on a person’s definition of home, of course,” he rambled on. What had the question been, again? He didn’t remember. Whoops.

Willow’s eyes flashed, and he looked into them without meaning to. She was scrunching her face again, but he didn’t quite care what it meant, because he couldn’t quite think.

She stood. “Are you losing it again?” Her voice had lost any hint of mirth or sleepiness.

Losing it. Losing what? His dinner? Maybe. His mind? Oh, that must be what she was talking about. “I… don’t think so,” he managed, panting shallowly. He lurched to his feet unsteadily, which also seemed a mistake. Was moving making it worse, or would it have hurt more regardless? He wouldn’t ever know, of course. Ouch. “Ah, please do pardon me, Miss Willow,” he requested, retrieving his torch from earlier.

She folded her arms and narrowed those sharp eyes. She seemed to be searching for something to say, or perhaps searching his soul, but Wilson didn’t know how much longer he could keep up his casual facade and he didn’t want to worry her. This wasn’t up for debate. “Would you kindly keep an eye on the fire? I’ll only be a moment.”

Her stance softened. “Sure. Don’t get lost in the dark, weirdo,” she ordered, but he had already left.

He watched the light from his torch flicker wildly as he strode off into the dark. Was his fire going out? No, his hands were shaking. His whole person was shaking, which was perfectly reasonable, given the probable temperature. What was not reasonable was how uncomfortably _hot_ he felt, his shirt sticking to his skin with sweat. If this was a fever, it was the most sudden, violent one he’d ever experienced. He didn’t want to think it was anything serious, though, perhaps he could just walk it off… forget the whole thing by morning…

Or perhaps not. He leaned over and upchucked, sorely grateful he’d gotten out of Willow’s hearing range. He nearly took a page from her book and swore, but it came out as a wordless groan, which was just as well. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. It came away with both vomit and blood.

Fascinating, he thought somewhat woozily. Now why would he be coughing up blood?

Had Willow poisoned him? Fear sent a shiver down his spine, despite how overheated he still felt. Perhaps he’d looked at this all wrong, and Willow didn’t have his best interests at heart. Really, why should she? He’d gullibly delivered everything he had of worth into her hands, and now he was a potential threat… every man for himself. He’d been had. Again.

Good gravy, if he was right about this, she must have used wicked powerful stuff. It hurt like the devil! He absent-mindedly kicked his shoes off his sweaty feet, relishing the slight respite the snow offered. He didn’t have to worry about hypothermia if whatever she’d given him was going to get him first, anyway. But why use poison? It was a truly nasty thought, but it would render his flesh unsafe to consume… but if she’d wanted to be sure to avoid a fight, then this was a good way to do it. Why, even if he’d wanted to, she’d have had every advantage. His knees were shaking so badly, he was hardly able to stand.

He’d been absently staring at the spot of blood on his hand, but there was something else strange… he pulled his glove off, his glazed eyes fighting to focus on his fingers. It was interesting, his arm was white as a bone, but his swollen hand was starting to turn a distasteful shade of grey, and his fingernail beds were black. He looked down. The same was happening to his feet.

The cold air on his skin was a small, sweet mercy. Without quite being aware of what he was doing, he stuck his torch upright into the dirt to slip off his vest, too. Next thing he knew, he was curled up on the ground in nothing but the snow. Would Willow find only his frozen corpse come morning? Would she be glad to find him that way? He wouldn’t know, he didn’t care. There was nothing but the pain, like a burning coal searing a hole through his gut.

Just out of reach, his abandoned torch flickered on, its tiny heat torturous. If only he could reach it and douse the light in the snow, it would all be over. The darkness’ teeth would only hurt for a second, if it would still have him. It must. Anything, if the pain would just stop! Please, please, please!

He reached out for the torch, but convulsions overtook his body. His hoarse screams were muffled by the thick snow, as more drifted peacefully down from the sky, uncaring and unaware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things were getting a little too happy, a little too easy, no? 
> 
> On an Unrelated Note! We now have a respectable... (o who am I kidding) *cough* Sizable! Sample of both Wilson and Willow's POVs. Which do you peeps like to read more?? Your answers may or may not affect who we see more of in the future!
> 
> *throws glitter and confetti* Thank you for reading my story, people!! <3 I don't understand. I don't understand why you are here or how you enjoyed this, but I'm so glad if you did!! Please feel free to comment below, let me know what you think, theorize, or just say hi. Your feedback feeds me XD


	5. Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow's POV again! *throws burning confetti and breadcrumbs* 
> 
> Jeepers creepers, it's the plot, someone tell me when it's over *hides under bed*
> 
> Also, I have been informed it's common author courtesy to inform readers of edits/retcons made? I do beg everyone's pardons; I didn't know, lolwhoops! I have indeed gone back and made slight alterations; mainly fixing typos and grammar fails (like this here chapter summary). I believe the only story details that have *actually* changed were in chapter one; in which I made it clear Willow dropped Wilson a few times, and chapter four, where I very slightly changed the measurement of the gem. Little stuff.
> 
> How many semicolons can I use in a chapter summary; these are the questions we must ask ourselves.
> 
> ;w;
> 
> Okay I'm done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know,,, I sure write a lot of introspection and junk. Actually I introspect a lot irl too, I introspect about writing introspection, haha! But I oughta use some of these chapters while they're separate to do somethin' different, experiment, yeah? For science!  
> Hey, you know what would be fun? Some good old-fashioned cheesy horror flick suspense!? Which I have no idea how to write??! Yep, that'll do, gee why haven't I done that befo-

Willow’s eyes snapped open. She was still seated by the fireside, but it had burned low. She must have dozed off. Ugh, whatever had woken her this time was really gonna get an earful! But she was alone, so there was no one else to blame. How long had it been, why hadn’t Wilson tended their fire? The sky had decided to spit more stupid snow at the world; it was going to snuff out their light if they weren’t careful! She got up to take care of it herself, grumbling irritably. Her dissatisfied noises seemed awful loud against the still, silent dead of night.

She threw more wood on the fire and savored the sweet glow on her face, the honeyed warmth soothing to her stiff muscles and half-asleep brain. Mm, there was something to be said for being out here in the wilderness, where there were no idiots to complain or press charges for a little smoke.

No one but Wilson. Where was he, anyway? Hadn’t he said he’d be right back? If that goof had frolicked off to pick more flowers at midnight, she was going to… well, she didn’t know what she was going to do. Probably laugh. He really was a Disney princess, with his silly affectations and quirks. One of his discarded flowers had resisted blowing out of their camp and was lodged in the firewood stack. She plucked it from its resting place, idly twirled it in her fingers, and tore the petals off one by one, tossing them in the fire and relishing watching them burn.

He really ought to be more careful, that Wilson, wandering around at night. He may have known his way around, sure, but… forget here, how had he even survived the real world? Boy’s head was so firmly in the clouds, she could just imagine him meandering across busy traffic completely unaware.

Willow’s eyes caught a curious shape on the far side of camp. Was that his shish kebob? Rude?! It had taken _effort_ to make a respectable meal out of *#$%?! &*)?** in the middle of nowhere, and she thought she’d done a bang up job of it! She stepped over the fire, wrinkling her nose down at the half-eaten dinner. What a slob. With a disgusted look, she picked it up by the stick, setting it on the lid of the crock pot. She kinda hoped he’d come back and finish it, not let it go to waste.

It was weird; he’d acted like a starved man, right up until he’d left in such a darn hurry. Why hadn’t he come back yet? How long had she been sleeping?

Where _was_ he?

She pursed her lips. It wasn’t her problem, what he did. Had he ever actually agreed to camp together? For all she knew, he’d just done her a favor or two, maybe repaid her for saving him from the fire, and was on his own merry way. Wherever that might be.

“Wilson?” She called out, her groggy voice almost conversational.

Silence. He could’ve built another fire, fallen asleep way out of hearing range. Or he could be dead. How was she supposed to know? She screwed up her face.

“Hey, WILSON?” She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, her voice bouncing off into the distance. Her ears strained for a response of any kind, any signal, but all was quiet. She was just about to yell a third time when something else broke the silence – but it didn’t sound like Wilson, or any person, it was a sort of _snap_. Like a flag being whipped by the wind, but sharper, louder. _Strange._

A sudden gust of cruel winter wind washed over her, and her eyes watered from the ferocity of it and the cloud of snow and ash it kicked up. She let it push her back a step, closer to the welcome warmth of her madly flickering fire.

And then, for just a heartbeat, everything was calm again. Perhaps it had all been nothing? But it was hard to be sure of what might be out there, in that vast, dark void. She squinted, but it didn’t help her see any farther.

Another strange sound burst into Willow’s camp, unwelcomed. She flinched and covered her throbbing ears. She didn’t generally mind loud noises, particularly when it was her favorite rock music, but this was a little harsher than a sweet bass line. It was more like thunder, actually, but louder and closer, as if the sky had descended to give the earth a firm scolding. But maybe that was just the weird acoustics of an empty, lonely wilderness. Was a snowstorm coming? She flicked on her lighter nervously, wondering if she should go look for Wilson. Not that she knew what good he’d do her if they were both about to be buried in snow. Ick, what a miserable way to go that would be! She frowned and shivered violently.

As if the whole world were out to get her in that moment, the ground began to shake. Not so badly that anything fell, but it still startled her. Unlike the thunder, however, it didn’t stop, seeming to get closer and closer. Willow wasn’t an expert on earthquakes, either, but this one struck her as a little weird. It stopped and started, like stumbling footsteps. But there was no way there was a _living_ thing making that much of a racket, was there? Maybe a stampede? No, it was too spaced out, like two or three pairs of feet, at most.

No, that was stupid. There wasn’t anything with feet that big! She spread her stance and put her hands on her hips, partly to keep her balance and partly to make herself feel braver. Being scared was silly and childish! There was no way it was a giant monster.

Or… maybe there was. She’d seen some weird things here. She still had healing scabs on her back from that shadow monster. Maybe this place really wasn’t normal. Maybe that thunder had really been more like a roar. Maybe something out there had heard her yelling. Something _really_ big. Maybe she was a complete idiot, and should be running.

She didn’t even make it a single step. Willow’s knees collapsed under her, and she sat down hard in the fire, gasping in disbelief. It was too late. It was upon her, whatever _it_ was. She couldn’t see much of it; she was blocking her own light, incidentally, but she could just make out gleaming, wickedly curved black claws, longer than she was tall.

Nope. *!*@#$%?!* no. She was done. She didn’t even want to know what was on the other end of those claws. Maybe if she sat still, it would leave her alone. Maybe it hadn’t seen her. Maybe it wasn’t brazen enough to touch her teeny fire. Maybe. She held her breath, squeezed her lighter tightly, and internally cursed her lost chance of escape.

It loomed down out of the darkness, and part of its head became visible. It had a white muzzle shaped vaguely like a horse’s, but she could have curled up in one of its eye sockets, it was so impossibly immense! Its toothy maw gaped open, and its reeking, moist breath washed over her, making her bangs stick to her forehead, making her gag. Holy _%#@1*$*! &*?!. _ 

A thin trail of saliva dripped down from its open jaws. There was blood in it.

That blood could have belonged to anything. It could have been the monster’s own, or it could have belonged to any other unfortunate animal that served as a snack, but what if it wasn’t? How could she assume anything but the worst? She’d barely known him…

“ _WILSON!”_  She screamed, but she didn’t expect an answer anymore, it was more of a battle cry. The beast ducked back, clumsily butting its chin into the ground, startled by her outburst. Willow stood, snarling. If this thing was gonna try to take her, than she was gonna meet it on her feet, !#@!?*&*!$!

A blinding wave of white hot fire escaped on the monster’s foul breath, the force of it bowling her over. It was the hottest, brightest blaze she’d ever seen, but that was the monster’s mistake. Instead of consuming her, it strengthened her, inspired her. The inferno’s power was hers, she was a goddess! Nothing could stand in her way!

There, on the ground near her, was Wilson’s spear, the wood ablaze and the tip red-hot. She used it to push herself back up on her feet. There was no outrunning this one, not with the stride it must have, but she was gonna leave this ugly critter with a mark! She could scarcely see through the raging flames, but she ran against them. The heat pulsed in her veins, driving her on. She screamed and launched upwards with everything she had, heaving the spear overhead. Her weapon came down at the same moment the brute seemed to realize its efforts were in vain and snapped its mouth shut. She triumphantly plunged it deep into the soft flesh of its nostril, where it stuck.

The beast keened ear-splittingly, recoiling backwards. Willow let go, but momentum propelled her forward, facedown into the muddy, freshly thawed ground, where she prepared to kiss this disgusting world goodbye.

But death did not come. Willow leapt to her feet, fists clenched, still spoiling for a fight. The creature was easier to see in the light cast from their burning base, the grass fire only barely contained by the melted snow. It had covered its profusely bleeding nose with its claws and was hunkered down, groaning pathetically.

Willow lifted her chin defiantly. “Yeah! That was for my friend, you #$%^@&*?!!” She jeered hoarsely.

“RRRRrrrrruhlllll,” it thundered back. “Wrulllloh.”

Willow’s heart just about stopped.

“*!@*#$%*?*&$!!* no,” she breathed.

The creature’s enormous, golden, slit eyes were in no way human, but that tone… that was familiar, no matter what the size. It was the same highfaluting voice, just through a couple dozen subwoofers.

“Missss Willllow,” he moaned piteously.

“Wilson.” Willow nearly fell on her butt for the third time that evening. This was _not_ happening. “What the _!*$#%@ &*?!! did you do??”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RAISE YOUR HAND IN THE COMMENTS IF YOU SAW IT COMING!!! MWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAaand there go half my readers probably.
> 
> By the by, have I recently told you all how awesome my readers/commenters are??? The support is *spectacular* and *so* far beyond what I ever, ever dreamed of getting for this silly story! Aaaaaasdfjghgjll, it's unreal. Where would I be without you guys, Idunno. Probably not here, now, posting another chapter. so YEAH thanks SO MUCH to EVERYONE who has read, and especially my commenters!!! <3 Have a wonderful day, you wonderful people!! And if you're new, please! Come join in on the comments beloooooow! I'm friendly, I swear, (unless you're one of my characters ehehehe)


	6. Unspeakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's POV again! He's... he changed something, didn't he? Could it be his hairstyle? Did he get a bit taller? Just a liiiiittle bit? Hmmmmm?!!
> 
> Some people are just so adverse to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE RETURNED!!! *roars triumphantly* HI HELLO! Didja miss me? ^.^ I sure missed me. It's good to be back, friends! <3
> 
> Perhaps it does not justify how very long this took me, but I have edited the ENTIRE WORK!!! MANY TIMES!!!! I'm a perfectionist hahaaa. The story is essentially unchanged aside from relatively small details, but I think the whole thing flows much more smoothly, so if this is the type of thing you care about, as I do, consider re-reading! And asdfghkl PLEASE let me know if you spot mistakes. In the story. Aside from the entire plotline. Eheheheeee
> 
> CHAPTER ONE was SO BAD, why didn't anyone tell me?? :V Gentlefolks, I used some form of the word desperate/desperately SIX TIMES in that tiny, repetitive chapter. I dunno about you all but repitition is a huge pet peeve of mine. It's just, y'know, so repetitive. So very repetitive. Repetitive so. Like. Soooorepetitive. I forgot how to write repetitive at the end there, that's how much of a word it no longer is to me. 
> 
> Anyway, clearly desperately desperate times called for desperate measures (desperately!)! 
> 
> It was so sad. Willow, play Desperatecito.

Wilson had _no idea_ what he’d done! He didn’t even know what he was _,_ exactly! He didn’t even want to know! Human, he was supposed to be human! No part of the last few minutes should have been scientifically possible. There was tiny Willow, agog, approximately the size of a cigarette. That may or may not have been an apt analogy, considering she was still smoking. Was she alright? He had to hope so, because he couldn’t do anything for her while in such a state, himself. Was this his fault? How?? What a catastrophe!

He desperately wanted to dismiss it all as a very bizarre nightmare, but getting stabbed in the nose should have woken him. Ouch, that woman had a mean blow! But he couldn’t exactly blame her. He must have given her quite a scare. He was scared of himself! He moved his bloodied hands – or whatever monstrosity they’d become – up from their place on his poor nose to cover his eyes, afraid to look. His face felt unfamiliar, disfigured. Downright inhuman, even. He shuddered.

Oh, yes, Willow was still waiting for an explanation, wasn’t she? So was he, really. He wasn’t at all sure what to say, or if he was even capable. His mouth felt dry, and he didn’t trust himself to form complete sentences. Or do anything better than scream incoherently. He went to hum noncommittally to at least acknowledge her, but it came out as a dreadful growl instead. Perhaps he best not even try. Oh, he was miserable!

Although, circumstances considered, it was powerful unlikely that Willow had poisoned him. Even if it were possible, he was utterly unwilling to believe she’d be so insane as to intentionally turn him into this… thing! That was a shred of good news, then; he could still be so optimistic as to consider her an ally. Oh, and he hadn’t died, after all. He supposed he should be grateful for that as well. He really wasn’t, though, and was wondering instead if that would have been preferable. Or maybe he _was_ dead, and this was divine punishment. Taking away his home had been bad enough, but his body?? Nooo, this was wrong. Everything was wrong.

“Hey!” He felt something lightly land on the tip of his nose, and his spine did its best to condense even more, pulling away from it. He timidly peeked between his fingers… claws… What-have-you. It was Willow’s hand. Willow’s teeny tiny gnat of a hand. She (and the rest of the world) had not been mystically returned to its regular size by sheer force of will, as he had been irrationally hoping for. “You _are_ Wilson somewhere in there, right?”

Heavens, he better be. He didn’t have the slightest clue how to go about being anything other than Wilson, and he was not keen on finding out. This was not okay! He honestly meant to reply to Willow, but his jaw was glued shut with fear, so he just quivered. Was turning into a behemoth an adequate excuse to be impolite? He didn’t know. This was an unprecedented circumstance.

Willow smacked his nose much harder, and the miniature spear wound twinged, momentarily dragging his mind kicking and screaming out of its dark hole. “HEY. Buddy. If you’re not Wilson, I – I need to go look for him or something. Or, eheh, run for my life and stop talking to animals like this is a *&%$!#@?* Disney movie.”

No no no, he couldn’t let Willow think he was a wild animal. _Say something!_ “Iii am he,” he managed awkwardly. He didn’t find it reassuring, personally, but Willow let out a huge sigh, and he felt a tiny bit better knowing she felt better.

It was exceedingly difficult to see her past the oversized end of his nose. He attempted to tip his head down to look at her over his muzzle, as if he were peering over reading glasses, but his jaw was already in the dirt, and there was nowhere farther down to go.

She must have had the same thought. She promptly climbed up and sat atop his nose, which seemed both reckless and forward to Wilson. He wasn’t sure he’d actually _touched_ Willow, other than to run into her that first time; she was a bit close for comfort! He didn’t feel capable of doing anything about it, though.

 “Sooo, when were you gonna tell me you can turn into *!?;$*%*&?!* Godzilla!?” she asked, her tone sharp but calmer than he had expected. Her lighter cast exaggerated shadows on her face, emphasizing her furrowed brow and crinkled nose.

What was a Godzilla? Given the general pattern of Willow’s speech, he guessed it was probably another swear word. Rude, but accurate to the situation.

“I - I didn’t – I’ve neverrrrr-” Wilson snapped his mouth back shut, jolting Willow. This was not the time for babbling incoherently, if there even _was_ such a time. Ah, and now she looked even more cross. Perhaps it would be wisest to avoid both speaking and moving. If he moved wrong, he might accidentally crush her! Oh, that was unbearably gruesome. How had this _happened_?? Perhaps more pressing, how was he supposed to undo it?! What if there wasn’t a way, what if he was stuck this way forever!?? He’d been clumsy enough in his own skin, but being clumsy and weighing some dozen tons did not go together. Or if it did, it didn’t end well. How was any of this supposed to end well, anyhow? Oh, for the love of all things fools took for granted. Himself included.

“Wilson! Calm down,” Willow commanded. He looked at her again. He hadn’t noticed that he’d closed his eyes. The velvety black sky was turning silver around the edges now.

He’d also been unaware that he was anxiously drumming his claws together dangerously close to Willow, and they were quite sharp. Oh, dear. He set them by his sides, curling them into something approximating fists to keep from fidgeting. Panicking was not getting anything fixed, she was right, he needed to calm down, he needed to _think._ He tried to take a deep breath, but the vacuum force pulled at the charred remains of the spear, which stung. Needless to say, it wasn’t calming.

“Seriously, what are you?” Willow asked, standing up on her tiptoes in what was possibly an attempt to get a better look at him. “Some kind of lab experiment?”

That was a perfectly reasonable guess, actually. “Nnno. Maybe. No. Human! I don’t knowww!” Willow grimaced and covered her ears, so Wilson quickly switched to a whisper. It was remarkably easier to talk that way. “I don’t understand, nothing like this has ever happened before! I _am_ a scientist, but I didn’t-” He hadn’t turned _himself_ into a monster, had he? A delayed reaction to some chemical…? No, that sounded like the plot to some mediocre children’s story, and last he checked this was reality. Unless it wasn’t, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that, so it didn’t bear thinking about. And he still hadn’t properly answered Willow’s question! It was ironic; it hadn’t been so long ago he’d been asking her what she was. Perhaps he should have been asking himself that question instead. “I don’t know! How bad is it?” He finished.

Willow shrugged and started walking up the slope of his snout, beyond where he could see her. “Uhhh, I dunno. Look up a little,” she instructed.

 He hesitated, both worried for her safety and what she would see, assuming her motive was attaining a higher vantage point. “Don’t fall,” he suggested uselessly before obliging, picking his head up from the ground and gently angling his nose towards the brightening, overcast sky.

Willow didn’t say anything for what felt like terribly long time. Wilson’s back prickled with the uncomfortable sensation of being stared at. Curiosity warred with his fear. In the end, it was physically impossible to avoid himself forever, so he might as well get this over with. Holding his head as steady as he could, scarcely breathing, he slowly pushed up on his hands and looked over his shoulder. His neck was longer and more flexible than he was accustomed to, so it was easier than he expected.

It didn’t feel real. It was more like looking at a bizarre drawing. Many of the otherworldly looking creatures he’d seen on the island had left him with that impression, but never _himself_. A mass of white scales glimmered in the pale morning light, blending in with the thick snow. It might have been mistakable as a part of the landscape, if it weren’t for the stripe of nasty, long black spikes running down the center, and the much darker grey coloring staining the limbs’ extremities. ‘Limbs’ was a somewhat broader term than usual. Sleek, batlike wings draped over the ground limply, and a serpentine tail flicked behind them. How was it possible to grow more appendages without noticing? Were they functional? Very slowly, his quivering wings drew closed like curtains. His tail was somewhat more difficult to get a grasp of. It must have had a similar bone structure to a spine, as it bent in any direction and twisted, revealing brilliant red plating on the flipside. He could feel his muscles moving, and the solid weight was undeniably real, but he still couldn’t connect what he was seeing with his own body. At least he felt like he could breathe again. Pondering impossible circumstances was a way he often amused himself, so this wasn’t all that different, as long as he didn’t connect it with himself…

“I’m thinking dragon?” Willow theorized from somewhere between his ears. He’d forgotten about her! The spines on his back pricked up at his surprise, not dissimilar to a dog’s hackles. Ugh, was he really an animal? How disgraceful.

…Now they were drooping. What did that mean? Maybe they were supposed to be like that. No, they weren’t supposed to be there at all! “Drrrrragons-” Oops, he was using a speaking volume again. Avoiding growling was much like when one was terribly congested and trying to avoid coughing. “Dragons are not real,” he whispered vehemently.

She scoffed, which quickly turned into a snort, then a genuine guffaw. He’d gotten rather used to being laughed at, particularly from Willow, but just now it was a bit more than he could take. He had half a mind to pluck her off his forehead and bury his head in a hole. “Willow, this isn’t funny,” he quite literally hissed. “What am I supposed to do??”

“Breathe more fire,” She suggested. He couldn’t tell if she meant it seriously. How would that help matters? He wasn’t sure he could do it again even if he wanted to. It had been purely accidental the first time. “Dude, this is amazing. I’d bet my liver you’re the biggest beastie out here, you could take on anything!”

Wilson did not, as a principle, believe in magic, but that statement was practically begging something bigger and scarier to leap out. He didn’t _feel_ particularly big or powerful. Not that he ever really had, but this had left him feeling so much more lost and powerless. He abruptly bumped his chin back down to the remains of their base, and Willow tumbled off with an indignant squawk. Her hair snagged on the spear butt on her way down, snapping the brittle, charcoal stick painfully. That was more offense that his poor nose could tolerate. He just barely managed to avert his head before sneezing enormously. Whatever had remained of the spear was either flung miles off, or obliterated in the resulting inferno.

Aha, he could indeed do it again. He lurched backwards, sitting up and covering his nose embarrassedly. It had stopped bleeding; the heat had cauterized the wound. “Pardon,” he whispered hoarsely. Fire, he was genuinely breathing fire. This was preposterous.

Willow whooped, far below. He’d reignited the cinders that had anything left to burn. For the first time, he really looked past himself to the total destruction he’d wrought on her miniature camp. The smoky air shimmered from the rising heat. Grey mounds of ash shifted and fluttered with the breeze, and much of the churned-up mud and melted snow had baked dry. Impressively, the cook pot and thermal stone (and Willow) were still recognizable, glowing red. Against the picturesque backdrop of clean, quiet snow in the distance, it looked infernal. He’d never committed arson before, and though it hadn’t been intentional, he still felt guilty. It was a miracle his doll-like companion had survived! He knew he was handling this poorly as was, but he’d have been devastated if he’d killed her. Of all the people he might have turned into a fire breathing monster around, he supposed she really was the best option. Not counting her initial reaction, she’d been astonishingly calm about this whole debacle.

He gingerly patted out the leftover fire with one forepaw… _hand..._ swallowing his revulsion. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Willow,” he meekly whispered.

“Yes, you are,” she agreed, shaking her head and huffing. Perhaps her small size was making her expression hard to read, but she looked like she was still smiling. Her moxie was enviable. “It’s fine. Look, we’re alive.”

It was _not_ fine, but perhaps she had a point. He tried to see it from her perspective. It did go both ways; of all the hypothetical bizarre creatures that might have crashed into her camp, he was likely the least menacing alternative. He certainly didn’t mean her any harm! He – he was still a human, just one trapped in a monster. Not to say he believed in monsters. Did he? Wait. What if it really _did_ go both ways, so to speak?

“What if you’re next?!” He gasped, clutching his head. Could that be the horrible fate awaiting all victims of this cursed place? What if all those bloodthirsty, warped animals had once been helpless people like him?? Were they all self-aware? Were they only acting wild due to some mysterious, outer compulsion… watching as their own deformed hands and teeth attacked whoever resided in the poorly-marked shallow graves? Or were they as mindlessly savage as they seemed? Was he one of them now? He didn’t feel particularly murderous, but – but would he notice if he did? When he’d burst into Willow’s camp and breathed fire at her, he hadn’t been thinking about her mysterious invulnerability. He hadn’t been thinking at all. Was it really an accident, or instinct? What if-

“WILSON!” Willow’s shout tore him back out of his head. He skittered backwards, spooked. “Sheesh, this isn’t the end of the world. The government isn’t going to swoop down and carry you off to area 51. Probably. Look, if I’m next, I’ll just… do it right and burn the world down like a real dragon, and it’ll be great. I’ll share my gold heap and abducted princesses with you. Now c’mon, are you gonna help me, or do I have to do everything myself?”

Wilson’s jaw flapped open and closed wordlessly, utterly at a loss. He wasn’t sure if he should be more mollified, or threatened. He wasn’t sure he _could_ feel more threatened at this point (not that he was asking anything to prove him wrong).

Should he tell Willow his fears…? It seemed only right to warn her, if there was any chance he was going to spontaneously start craving her blood. But if she did the smart thing and left, where would he be then? Wondering after her, he supposed. And would that really be the safer option for her? Were her chances better alone against the unknown than with the evil she knew? She didn’t seem to be taking this very seriously. He had no evidence to back up his argument, and while that didn’t dissuade his own fears, it might sound a bit outlandish out loud. He was well accustomed to things sounding better in his head…

And he didn’t want to worry her.

Was choosing not to divulge his first animalistic act? No, it would be his second, at least – ruining her campsite had been the first. “Sorry,” he apologized again. It seemed like the right thing to say. He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but it was gone, and there was some ridiculous, stiff structure in its place… horns? “Er… I - I’m not sure how cope with being… uh… a giant reptile. I have to hope it’s temporary.” It had come on out of the blue; perhaps it could yet be undone just as simply… he would have to find a way, before this unearthly condition caused any more trouble. “Apologies for the inconvenience. How can I help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~So here's a story about myself! My friends call me Dragon, and mime stabbing themselves as a way of greeting/acknowledgement, no lie. My irl, afk, asfgjkl, etc., wonderful friends and family, bless them for putting up with me, they know that everything I write ends this way; All Stories Lead to Stabbings and Dragons. I might have an addiction. *shrugs merrily*
> 
> Thank you for reading my autobiography, and also this story, which was brought to you by Dragon (s). And stabbings. Please comment below! Please do not stab actual dragons!
> 
> OH, and HEY, I was considering editing the tags, too, while I was at editing everything else. Y'know, those tags no one was supposed to read. It says 'humor' somewhere up there, I believe, along with an 'Or at least I thought so but y'all will have to let me know on that one'. What do you guys think, is this funny?? Am I the only one that laughed at all those carrot jokes in chapter two? Let me know what made ya laugh or smile, if anything! 
> 
> !!EDIT!! Hey hey, I was kinda being a goof when I originally brought this up, but I really do go back and forth between taking this story seriously, and regarding the entire thing as ironic and a joke. I just can't even tell anymore, I'm too subjective,,, if I'm reading this, I'm too close --- what I mean to say is, I could really use some reader imput! Do you think this story is currently more serious, or more silly? Which do you want there to be more of in the future? Vote belowwww!
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting, and existing!!! So glad to have you all along for my wild ride! <3


	7. Inept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow's POV again! No one answered me last chapter if they wanted more serious or more funny stuff?? So I tried my dangdest for both! Multitasking! WoooOOooo! \o/
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNING! (um spoilers)***
> 
> This chapter has more blood/gore/injury description than any of the previous chapters! I don't plan to warn for gore again in following chapters; I did put some vague warning or other in the tags. So just be prepared, mwahahaha! *throws bloody confetti*
> 
> On a (probably) unrelated note, I've heard more people die from cow related injuries than from sharks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So writing Wilson be like: asdfjkghoierj how were people in the 1920s?? I can't see this dapper gentleman scientist using the 20's slang Google offers, like Giggle Juice or Zozzled. History classes did not prepare me for this. So, uhm, common courtesy probably existed back then and, ah, use big words. Eheheeeeehhhhh good enough.
> 
>  
> 
> But then?? Writing Modern Willow be like: HWAT ARE MILLENIALS??? Kids these days? Uh, gee, I guess they curse and? watch Netflix? I should throw memes in there or smth. I don't know how to meme. Maybe I am a meme. I can't be a youyou.
> 
> Moral of This Author Note: Author grew up under a rock and/or lives outside of time, and/or was Maxwell all along,

Willow mulled over Wilson’s offer, rubbing the aching hip she’d landed on when she’d fallen off his enormous muzzle. She could feel a big, tender bruise forming. It had probably been an accident, and was probably less painful than being sneezed to the moon, but still! Would it have killed him to be a little more careful?

She wouldn’t give him grief over it… yet. It couldn’t be a good idea to provoke him while he could squish her like a bug, even if she sort of wanted to. His thunderstruck expression was just so funny! The whole thing was pretty funny, really. Better to laugh than cry about it, anyway.

“Yeah, uh… how ‘bout some coffee, hmm?” She smiled as brightly as she could, given she hadn’t seen a toothbrush in a week and this was apparently her life now. Aside from the villainous lack of caffeine, which was the obvious priority, Willow wasn’t sure what to fix first. Shame Wilson had put the lovely fire out. It made her worldview so much brighter.

“Okay, we need to rebuild,” She counted on her pointer finger, resisting the immature impulse to lift a different one instead. “Actually, seeing as this is now probably the driest spot on the whole snow sodden island, here is good. Maybe you could even expand a little, y’know, burn out a bigger area?” She suggested hopefully. He didn’t respond, but his big pointy ears were now pricked at her where they had been drooped before, so she assumed he was still listening. She continued. “And we need a way to keep warm…” She shivered and looked at him meaningfully, but he didn’t catch her second cue to spit more fire. What was the point of turning into a huge flamethrower if he wasn’t going to use it? “I guess we’re trying to find a way home? Maybe? We haven’t talked about that much, have we?” That was three, and she was avoiding addressing the elephant in the room. Well, dragon, actually. “…And we’d better find something to eat.”

She paused to let that sink in, scooping up the big fire-heated rock and savoring its warmth. In some ways, cooking out here had its perks. Roasting things over an open fire was tastier and more fun than microwaving anything, every time, period. She was a light eater, anyway, so she’d been getting by just fine on what she foraged.

But that was when she hadn’t been thinking ahead, hadn’t taken winter into account, and didn’t have another mouth to feed. Especially not one that big. What the *?!&%$#@^0??* did something that size even _eat?_ A rabbit was, what, a skittle to him? She hadn’t seen any evidence of larger wildlife, like deer or bears. It had been comforting at the time, but now she was stuck hoping Wilson could get by on vegetarian alternatives. Like, uh, trees. Or maybe he was going to hibernate? That would be easier. And lonelier.

“I also need to find a cure,” Wilson added in a breathy whisper. Holy smokes, ‘dragon breath’ had so much more meaning now. It made her wish she was still up on his head, where the air was clearer. At least this was warmer. “Your concerns have more immediate solutions; or, those regarding sheer survival, that is. The grassland is not far from here,” he gestured over her shoulder in a direction she hadn’t been, shrouding her in shadow, “and it has stone and grass for construction, and a herd of beefalo, but you-”

Willow sputtered loudly, cutting him off. “Beefalo?”

Wilson withdrew self-consciously, paw in the classic _nyah_ pose. “Er, yes. I don’t suppose you’ve met them yet. Big, wooly, cow-like creatures. They provide many resources, and aren’t generally aggressive, but you-”

“I don’t have any tools,” She finished for him impatiently. She was quickly discovering Wilson had two modes; Mad professor, and about as talkative as a mushroom. He was also speaking much slower, probably to compensate for having a muzzle. It wasn’t going to get breakfast on the table any time today.

“Yes, well, I can’t help with that,” His ears were pinned back now. Yep, time to stop annoying him. Willow bit her lip to keep from interrupting again. “I… no longer have… hands,” he murmured, staring at his paws distractedly and flexing his claws, eyes glazed with detached horror.

Wow, this really did have him shook. Her own nerves were pretty frayed, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the initial shock, or if she was picking it up from him. Probably the latter; Willow didn’t really jumpscare. She wished she knew how to calm him down, if only for her own sake. This was like dealing with a scared little kid. He needed a fidget spinner or something. A dragon-sized fidget spinner… A helicopter? Or maybe any distraction would do. That had worked alright so far.

“It’s alright, it’s fine, I can make tools as we go. We need to get moving. You’ve probably burned or scared away everything useful for miles! Except for me. I’m useful, sometimes, maybe,” She joked. His expression didn’t change, but his ears drooped again. Whoops, she must have hit a nerve. Handy for her, though; his heart seemed to have a quicker connection to his ears than to his brain or mouth. “I – I mean! Killing sunlight here, eh?”

*(@#!$%^1*, this was gonna be hard. Willow wasn’t good with kids that were kid-sized, forget kidults and, uh, kidragons. “Let’s go get breakfast!” She suggested with a peppy grin she didn’t feel. Words were getting them absolutely nowhere, it was time for action! She turned around and started off in the direction Wilson had pointed. She slowed as she reached the edge of where the ground had been baked dry and her heels started sinking into the already refreezing, slushy mud. Ew, ew, ew. Maybe he’d give her a ride. That would be faster, and sweet bragging rights.

“Um,” Wilson’s whisper warmed her back. Talk about breathing down someone’s neck. “I think it would be for the best if we split up. You shouldn’t stay near me, in case I, er, step on you.”

There wouldn’t be any risk of that if she rode on him! Willow craned her neck back to look at him upside-down. She didn’t have to go very far, considering how much taller he was. “Seriously?” Why the heck were they even camping together if they were just gonna split up every time? Did she smell _that_ bad? He needed to get a whiff of his own morning breath, if that was his excuse. She crinkled her nose at him pointedly.

He was wringing his paws, a very human gesture in a very inhuman body. “Quite.”

Willow straightened up and tossed her hair. Fine. Whatever. Made no difference to her! “Sure. Yeah, that might be faster anyway.” Five impossible things before breakfast, all alone… she could do that, right? What else was new? “Holler if you need me, ‘kay?” She shouted, without looking back. She continued to not look back, because she was a strong independent woman who did not need a man, or a dragon, to help her do anything as simple as find breakfast in the middle of *&@!#$%?* nowhere. That was her reason, not that she could feel his big, sad eyes following her into the lonely wilderness.

It was a good minute or two before she felt the ground shaking with Wilson’s departure. She flicked on her little lighter for company, and tried not to think about the very big lighter slowly and cautiously rumbling away.

The hot stone she was carrying faded to a dull lukewarm yellow. Willow sniffled, her nose running from the intense cold. She irritably kicked up a drift of snow with her numb feet, only for a gust to blow it back on her. It didn’t seem to matter which way she turned; she was always walking against the brutal wind. Her leggings were soaked almost up to her knees from the thick snow drifts. Ohhhh, snow. Who had the brilliant idea of a white Christmas?? Snow was mean and gross and stupid.

She didn’t get much farther before she realized didn’t have anything with her to create a fire with – except, of course, her sweater, but she still wasn’t going to do that. She lit a bare berry bush and huddled by it for warmth, but it didn’t last nearly long enough. Displeased at the threat of freezing, she hurried to find enough materials to build a new axe, and then just as hastily set off in search of anything edible to hit with it.

She smelled the beefalo before she could actually see the disgusting, hairy beasts. There were a bunch of them, but they looked pretty slow and stupid. And big! She could probably get plenty of beefalo burgers out of just one of ‘em, but Wilson was huge now, so maybe two or three would do better. Dinner had been pretty good last night, but she’d had to split it with him (what a waste), and it was starting to feel like a long time ago.

She set the cold thermal stone down where she was sure she could easily find it again, tucked her lighter into her shirt, rubbed her frozen fingers together, and then gripped her weapon with both hands. She took a moment to gather her courage. Sure, she was tough, but she’d never premeditatively slaughtered livestock in subzero temperatures with a dull axe. What a weird, tragic life she led. But what choice did she have?

“It’s you or me!” She cried, charging towards the nearest animal. It raised its big, dumb head and looked at her mournfully. _Crack!_  Her axe hit between the beast’s eyes neatly. Hot, sticky blood splattered against the blade. The creature staggered, bellowing in agony. Willow drew back for another blow, surprised it was still standing. Maybe she should have aimed for its neck?

Before she could react, the wild thing lowered its indented, oozing skull and rammed her. Her piercing scream was cut short as she hit the ground hard enough to have the breath knocked out of her, even with her fall cushioned by the snow. The sparks only just cleared from her eyes in time for her to roll away as its hooves crashed down where she’d just been. She pushed herself up and defensively raised her blade, coughing and swearing.

The whole herd had surrounded her, and they looked furious. Willow swung wildly and nicked one on the cheek. The nearest beasts lunged at her. She dodged the first few clumsily, off-balanced. One caught her arm with a horn, tearing her sleeve and skin, and another biffed her in the face. She fell backwards and caught herself on her left wrist. It crumpled under her painfully. Angry limbs and hooves lunged at her from every direction. She threw her axe blindly into the mob, turned, and began half crawling, half swimming through the wet snow as fast as she could. She couldn’t feel anything, numb from the shock and the cold. She couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing in her ears. She couldn’t see anything but blurry streaks of white and red. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t make it.

Blackness enveloped her. She couldn’t die now! Panic drove her up on her hands and knees, but pain kept her from getting any higher. She roared defiantly, but she had no bite left to back her bark.

Something else roared back, significantly louder. The ground shifted and rose up to meet Willow’s face as she lost her balance and crumpled forwards. It continued rising. Her ears rang shrilly, and her head pounded. She curled up against the smooth, hard ground, woozily wishing she would just pass out already. She didn’t. Respite not found, she forced her eyes back open impatiently as the earth continued to joggle her back and forth.

It wasn’t the earth that was under her, she realized as the darkness lifted in the shape of massive claws. She was settled on top of the palm of the other paw. Wilson! He must’ve had her trapped in his hands like a butterfly. “Hey!” She yelled ineffectively. She couldn’t even hear herself; there was no way he heard her. She smacked and kicked the leathery paw pad under her, but it was clearly hurting her more than him. When her tantrum continued to go unnoticed, she settled back and tried to focus on what was going on around her. The whining in her ears finally dimmed enough for her to make out raucous animal squalling, but that didn’t clear anything up. It was hard to see what was going on with the world tilting and spinning.

Alright, so she had no *&^%?0#@$!* idea what was going on out there, no easy way of finding out, and it didn’t even matter because there was nothing she could do about it. It was a little hard to keep from panicking, feeling so helplessly trapped, but the enormous nerd had saved her from the murder cows. She was far too hurt and angry to be grateful, exactly, but she didn’t hate him. Or if she did, it was because she currently hated _everything_. Yeah, herself, too, for allowing herself to get into this position.

She turned her focus inwards to assess her injuries. Her left wrist was swelling up like an insulted politician. She was surprised it didn’t hurt more. Maybe the cold was good for something, after all. The gash on her right bicep was jagged and painful, but she didn’t think it was very deep. It’d leave a cool scar, probably. Oh, joy. She couldn’t take a full breath without her side screaming, but she wasn’t sure if she’d actually broken any ribs, or just bruised them. It took her longer to realize her nose was also bleeding, given she was already covered in blood, both from herself and the beefalo she’d tagged. Burning her sweater suddenly sounded much more appealing, given it was coated in gore and manure. Too bad it was also too wet to light. She was so, so cold. A fire sounded like heaven. She pulled out her lighter and stared at the beautiful flame until the rest of the hideous world faded away.

She remained zoned out until her ride stopped. She felt like her organs stayed up in the air behind her as she sank quickly down to the ground and rolled off the tilting paw to the snow below. She started to sit up, but it was too hard. She gave up and grimaced up at Wilson. “Youuuu *0(#$%&^@1!**. You look-” she paused to groan as her side zinged, “Terrible.”

He cringed and wiped his white muzzle with a paw, smearing the blood dripping from it. “Believe me; I’m extremely aware of that. You don’t look well, yourself, how badly are you hurt?”

“I’m dead,” She wheezed, rolling onto her opposite side in hopes of giving her ribs a break (ha, ha). It didn’t help much. She didn’t know how else to describe her anguish, so she cursed as emphatically as possible while unable to catch a full breath or stop chattering. Her stiff, cold lips and sheer exhaustion slurred her words. It wasn’t her greatest rant, but she thought it captured the gist of her suffering. Wilson’s ears twitched at her profanity, which she found vaguely satisfying.

He crouched down like a sphinx, tail swishing agitatedly. “Hush, calm down, please. Be serious here.” She didn’t have the energy to argue, much as she wanted to, so she held still while he looked her up and down. It was too much work to move, anyway. “I’m really not sure how much I can do for you like this. I don’t have materials for medicines or poultices, I don’t have _fingers_ to stitch skin or set bone …” He kneaded the snow with his claws. Willow admired the hypocrisy of the jumpy dragon telling _her_ to calm down, of all things. If she was any more calm, she was going to fall asleep. Man, was she beat…

“Fire?” She managed wearily. Fire would help, she was sure of it. Fire made everything okay.

“What, to cauterize your wounds? Does that even work on you? N-oh, oh! You’re freezing to death!”

Willow mustered the strength to roll her eyes. Genius.

It took a second for the implication to sink in. She’d always imagined hypothermia to be the worst way to go out … or one of them, anyway. It wasn’t as terrible as she’d expected, she mused. She really couldn’t feel the cold anymore.

“How do I-” Wilson blew on her. There wasn’t any fire. He sat up and grunted. “I don’t understand… er, pardon me.” He cleared his throat loudly. It sounded like Willow imagined a volcano might right before erupting. It was promising, what with the general idea being for fire to come out, but nothing happened. He experimentally huffed and puffed for another minute or two, or maybe an hour, heck if she knew - to no effect. She bit back her disappointment.

The world was getting hazy around the corners. She was under the distinct impression she should be scared, should be fighting to stay awake, but she was just so sleepy. She’d fought so much.

“Willow!” Wilson growled. Oh, he was still there. Cool.

She didn’t resist when he scooped her back up, though it made her side dimly ache. He held her close to his face and exhaled on her softly, repeatedly. It was nasty to be so close to his teeth, which definitely hadn’t seen floss in a very long time. His breath smelled bloody. There was still no fire.

A few minutes passed. Wilson’s paws jolted under her gently and rhythmically with his slow heartbeat. Willow’s arms and legs started throbbing painfully as she gradually thawed out. She grit her teeth, halfway wishing the numbness would come back.

“How do you feel?” Wilson whispered, turning his head so she wasn’t in the direct line of his breath anymore. She missed the warmth, but was relieved to see the icky view go.

“Covered in dragon spit,” she groused. She wiped her face with her good wrist. It didn’t do much, considering it was as filthy as the rest of her. “You?”

She’d been being sardonic, but he looked to be taking it seriously. “A bit rattled,” he admitted. Hah, that was the understatement of the century. Then again, she was beginning to think his default state was rattled. It was exhausting. “And very foolish. I can’t believe I almost lost you,” he fretted, whisper wobbly with worry. “I w-wasn’t thinking. Thank God you’re okay! Although, I suppose I did lose you, in a manner of speaking. Or, us, that is.”

She opened her mouth to argue that she was very much not okay, but something else he said caught her attention. She sat up with a wince and looked around, taking in the slices of scarlet and salmon sunset seeping through the cracks in a sky spread with roiling, ominous clouds. It was snowing. It must have been going on for a while, judging by what looked like dust gathering on Wilson’s dark horns. He lowered her to the ground as she struggled to look over the edges of his fingers, and her fears were confirmed; this was not their camp. Or, where their camp should have been, if a certain dragon hadn’t destroyed it. Granted, the flat, white land all looked basically the same, but she definitely didn’t recognize the… was that a _cemetery?_

“Wilson?” She pushed herself up on her feet and cautiously stepped down from his fingers. “Are we lost?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank youuuu for reading!! Don't be shy, please comment and let me know what you think!!
> 
> IN OTHER NEWS,  
> my birthday is in a few weeks!!! *dons party hat* I dare you all to guess my age in the comments!! No, I will not tell you if you are correct, but it will give me great mirth when you are wrong! XD


	8. Unruly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's POV! I smell some Trouble in /not/ paradise brewing; could it be. The plot. Oh * someone tell me when it's over *hides in pillow fort*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willow curses a lot in this chapter; I have gone from using as many symbols as possible to just one asterisk (*) because, idk, the other symbols were too... far... away? Plus I think it looks tidier. Gotta keep that filthy language neat and organized, mmmmyep! :D
> 
> ...I feel like every time I sit down to write on the next chapter, I'm like,,,,, wow. There are /so many/ words here, and nothing has? actually? happened??? It's a walk in the park, like,,, my children, how 'bout some actual conflict? Spice things up, amirite?  
> And then  
> every time I finish a chapter I'm like,  
> Oh. Oh goodness me, what have I done, I'm a monster,

Wilson sighed heavily. The loose, powdery fresh snow whirled away on his breath, as if fleeing. “Only somewhat, supposing you’re referring to where we are relative to your previous camp, as opposed to where we are supposed to be, back among proper society.” He hadn’t intended to speak that last half aloud. He ground his teeth together, irritated on Willow’s behalf by his abrasive, if true, implication: that she was rude or unseemly. Oh, well, he couldn’t unsay it, so his next best option was to bury it. “We aren’t very lost, I meant to say,” he hurriedly corrected himself. “I doubtlessly left footprints, but we’d best backtrack now before the snow covers them.” Not that they had anything much to backtrack _to,_ but he did prefer to have a notion of where he was. He also had a sort of niggling feeling he’d left something important behind, though he couldn’t think of what it might be.

Willow grunted. “I dunno how far I can walk like this. What the * were you thinking, running off like that??”

Wilson stared down at the ground sullenly. It wasn’t as effective a method of avoiding eye contact as it had been at his previous height of approximately 165 centimeters. (He’d never curse being short again! The things he took for granted!) He averted his eyes up to the troubled sky instead. There was something comforting; the sky didn’t look any smaller than it should. He could imagine himself a few days ago, an ordinary fellow again, keeping an eye out for nightfall. Better yet, he could think back years ago, to peaceful evenings spent watching twilight gradually descend from behind the safety of a window, simply searching the heavens for answers.

But the falling snow was going in his eyes, and hadn’t supplied any better answers to the question he’d been tactlessly avoiding. What _had_ he been thinking? He inattentively watched Willow retrace his steps, struggling to do the same mentally.

He’d been contemplating the most effective method of collecting wood  as a beast when he’d heard her scream. It had all been a blur after that, up until just moments ago… he remembered flashes of terrible noises, a dull and constant ache in his belly, running on three legs… he’d done the best he could, hadn’t he? Perhaps he’d only been carried away by adrenaline? He hadn’t had a choice. He’d been weaponless and desperate. It had all been an act of self defense, he justified. They’d only been dumb animals.

What a petty, hypocritical excuse, considering he was well on his way to becoming a witless animal himself.

“Well?” Willow was looking back over her shoulder, having gotten a pretty good distance ahead for the state she was in. A mere step or two for his current stride, but respectable nonetheless.

“Why—what were _you_ thinking, Miss Willow? Attacking the herd like that was beyond foolish!” The patronizing hiss slipped out like it had gained a life and will of its own. Perhaps it had. Wilson bit his tongue. It hurt fiercely, what with his newly sharpened, carnivorous teeth.

“Oh, just trying for food for both of us in the middle of * winter, in the middle of * _here_ , while one of us is the size of _*_ … _you!_ Why’d I even try? I’m _starving_ , least you got-” Her breath hitched, probably from a broken rib. He hoped her lungs weren’t damaged. She did have good volume. She panted for a second, focusing on slogging through the deep snow. “You have a li’l somethin’ in your teeth,” she sniffed.

She was right. He could feel something bothersome lodged in his gums, but couldn’t get it out with his sore tongue. Once he was certain Willow wouldn’t see, he carefully extracted it with a claw and peered at it. It was difficult to tell in the quickly fading light, but it looked like a section of an animal’s rib cage.

He felt sickened looking at it. He flicked it off into the distance discreetly, but the bitter taste and queasiness remained.

“Don’t you even blame me for this *,” she carried on randomly. The bobbing glow from her lighter coupled with her small size made her resemble a mythical will-of-the-wisp. Or a Willow the wisp, as it were. Perhaps she was leading him astray, into danger, as legend would have it. Scratch that – she unquestionably was, because there was nowhere on the island that wasn’t dangerous in some fashion. “I had no way of knowing they’d – they’d _fight back!_ ”

Wilson stopped in his tracks, startled out of his temporary vow of silence. “Of course you did! I warned you!” She must have forgotten or misunderstood when he’d told her how the beefalo ‘aren’t generally aggressive, but you must not provoke any within sight of the others; they fiercely defend their own.’ Isn’t that what he’d said? She didn’t have to learn these lessons the hard way, as he had.

She sped up, stumbling a bit. “You!” She gasped, and her free hand went to her side. She didn’t look at him, or slow down. “…Didn’t!!”

He forced his legs to advance again, not wanting to lose sight of little Willow among the increasingly murky surroundings. “I did, I…” Well, now he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure of anything, anymore. He’d meant to. She must not have been listening, or she’d interrupted him, or… maybe he’d just thought it loudly in her direction. He did often mix up the voices spoken aloud with those spoken in one’s mind.

“… Beefalo*!”

He was incapable of changing Willow’s mind, so whether he was right or not, this was a waste of words. Perhaps a change of topic was in order. “Regardless of whatever else took place, we’re fortunate you survived this mistake. If you’re wearing something decent underneath your sweater, you might consider taking it off and using it instead as a sling. Tie the sleeves ‘round your neck, put your wrist through.”

She was already doing so, wincing as she raised her arms above her head. She had some difficulty tying it in place with one hand, and he wished he could help her. He still didn’t know the extent of her internal injuries; he ought to be relieved she was breathing at all, not attempting to chastise her. It was not his responsibility to correct her! Anyone who knew anything about medicine at all ought to understand the futility of arguing with an injured person, perhaps especially a woman. She had every reason to be in a foul mood. She must have been in intense pain, and she was probably scared half out of her mind, or even in shock. Beyond all that, she was still new to the island and the keen sense of despair that permeated the air, akin to the fog surrounding the headstones they walked amid.

“…Yeah, ‘cuz modesty, that’s a priority. Sure, better straighten up n’ fly right, so’s not to offend _polite society_ ,” she muttered, poorly mocking his voice at the end. “Why the * should you care?”

He might have scowled at that, but he wasn’t certain he had eyebrows anymore. Could animals scowl? Did they even experience frustration? “What? I - I can’t comprehend your question; to not care is… unthinkable! We are stranded here in some deranged circle of hell, stealing time from a constantly looming death for no worthwhile reason. We struggle to breathe purely so that we may keep breathing! I’ve lost everything… my home, my purpose, years worth of work and years lost here that can never be replaced. I’ve lost my body, I’ve lost my mind! What do I have left to differentiate between myself and the beasts but humanity, some semblance of civility?”

“Shut up!” She must not have been hurt all that badly, after all; she was jogging ahead, now. She was a willful little thing. Maybe she hadn’t been asking why he cared about moral standards or common courtesy, but what else could she have meant? “You self-righteous *! Who’re you to judge me? You don’t know anything about me!”

“Well-” What could he have said that had come across so judgmental as to earn him that title? “You _aren’t_ very ladylike.” Oh, that was critical enough. What was he doing, what had come over him? It wasn’t like him to speak so rudely, to be so loose of tongue. He needed a muzzle. Not that he knew how to make one, what material to use, or even the measurements of his own horrid face.

Willow snorted derisively. “As if I care. You sure suck at being a dragon!”

“Don’t call me that,” he growled. He was not a dragon; he was a gentleman. He had to be, it was all he knew… but gentlemen did not insult ladies, or the injured, or _anyone_ , and they didn’t burn down others’ hard work, and they didn’t tear apart living creatures with their bare teeth.

He scratched his chest uncomfortably. He really did feel terrible after all that, but it wasn’t only the guilt that was eating at him inside. Perhaps raw beefalo didn’t agree with him. He’d been doing his best to ignore it; pain was not generally worth his time and attention. Its commonality made it redundant, useless, and uninteresting, but this affliction had a firmer grasp on his wandering attention than most, because it reminded him of the previous night. It was the same sensation, but less severe… similar to heartburn. Were the two events connected, was there something wrong with him ongoing? Aside from becoming more and more a monster? Was _that_ related? He mentally sought answers like a man rifling through a desk in disarray, seeking one particular undistinguished piece of paper; the needle to the haystack.

Supposing his shape and his illness were both symptoms, what was the cause? If Willow had the means to do this to a body, he was now confident she would have used it on herself instead. She had made her opinions on his skill as a so-called ‘dragon’ clear enough. On that point, he did have to agree with her. So, had he really done this to himself? He retraced his steps further back, through time, snow, and bleary pain. Where was the anomaly, aside from Willow’s presence?

_The gem_. That was it, clear as day. He’d found one other red jewel in his time here; a larger, smoother, duller stone from a red hound. He’d left it behind, along with everything else he’d dropped to better flee, and he hadn’t thought of it again since. What use did he have for riches? He’d ultimately left behind the second gem as well, so whether it was the unknown factor or not, of what lasting consequence could it possibly be?

But he was distracted from investigating that question by an ominous shift in the atmosphere. The last drops of cold sunlight were slipping away. He blinked and froze mid-step. Willow was not in front of him! He hadn’t stepped on her, had he?? No, there was her silhouette by a blazing tree. She had her back turned to both him, and the path they were meant to be following back. He could make out a few other charred trees not far from her; this must be her third or fourth fire. How long had he been strolling along blind to his surroundings? He couldn’t afford the luxury of woolgathering.

He chanced to glance down, and there beneath him, where it might have been crushed had he not paused just then, was a cracked stone tablet. He only glimpsed it for a fraction of a second before the darkness flooded his vision entirely, but he recognized it, much as he feared to remember. It was a touchstone.

Something surrounded him in the dark, something hauntingly familiar. He could hear her now as he hadn’t been able to previously, though he wasn’t sure he could describe what, exactly, he heard. Almost like human voices, but not quite.

Fear tore him in two directions simultaneously: common sense drew him back towards the light, but experience pushed him forth to touch the stone. The result was complete failure to do either. He stood there like an idiot, holding his breath like it was his to keep. She—she? Why would the dark have a gender? _It_ circled him, he felt it. It hissed primally, a paralyzing, purely evil sound—but no, wait, that was coming from himself. Had he really been thinking about it, he might have wondered if threatening something invisible and unknown, something which might’ve been scarier than himself, was really the best plan. But he _wasn’t_ thinking. It felt sort of right, anyway, so his hissing continued and grew into a fearsome snarling that didn’t cease until he realized two things: Firstly, he could see, just a little bit, in the dark. The snow and mist shimmered ever so slightly less black than the gravestones and his own dark talons, though he couldn’t make out what hunted him. Secondly, whatever it was, it had not struck him yet.

Perhaps it was studying him, as he studied it, or perhaps it was every bit as frightened. Perhaps it looked into him and saw a monster reminiscent of itself, in the same way Wilson kept daftly attempting to empathize with an unseen tormenter that may or may not have been capable of rational thought or emotion at all. Or perhaps it was more intelligent than him, and had some motivation superior to anything he could speculate. Whatever its reasons, it lingered. He felt it watching intently, waiting. Without anything tangibly touching him, he felt it had torn away every protective layer he hid behind, and was preparing to make some final judgment on the state of his soul—like a gourmet critiquing an unsatisfactory dish. It was a bizarre, exposed feeling, and beyond unsettling. He had the strangest urge to apologize to it, but for perhaps the first time this evening he succeeded in holding his tongue. Developing some misplaced sympathy or loyalty to a deadly nonentity had to be one of the most overtly insane things he’d done yet. He was not grateful to something that didn’t exist for sparing his life. He snuffled like a bothered horse and stepped back, blinking rapidly.

What was he doing, lingering?! He didn’t know why he was still alive, every second squandered was giving it another opportunity to attack! He turned towards Willow, the glow of her fire partly visible through the heavy darkness, like seeing through filthy water. He wouldn’t have been able to see it at all previously, whereas the brightness made his eyes water now.

Indecision stalled him again. He was so close to the touchstone; if it was truly what he thought it was, he should activate it before he risked doing anything else! He wasn’t superstitious, or he tried not to be, but to spurn something so valuable when it had presented itself in such a sudden, coincidental manner made it feel like his opportunity might take offense and disappear! He turned around the rest of the way, spinning in place to look for the stone again. Whoops, he’d spun widdershins in the dark. Not that the direction he chose to turn about had any significance whatsoever! He was infinitely more likely to hex himself by expecting the worst than from some mystical force. And there was proof that he hadn’t given himself bad luck; he’d found the stone again.

He reached for it a second time, more deliberately, but once again he paused before his claws could make contact with it. The darkness hadn’t harmed him yet, in all this time he’d wasted dithering. The beefalo hadn’t been any match for him, either, earlier, and the cold didn’t bother him. Any of those things could’ve destroyed fragile little Willow. She’d nearly frozen to death right in the palms of his hands, and she could have frozen many times over while he’d been so distracted, had she not the ingenuity to find something to burn.

He squinted over his shoulder at the little flickering light, trying to make out his troublesome companion. She could be dying, right now, from an internal hemorrhage, or any number of medical complications. She might drop dead at any old time, because humans and life were just vexingly transient like that; she might not even need a reason.

Or maybe she would be just fine! He _knew_ there was something wrong with himself. There had been since he’d picked up that unlucky jewel. No, that was wrong; the bizarre sickness had only started after he’d lost it—or after he’d _thought_ he’d lost it.

He set his hand down beside the touchstone, careful not to brush against it. It made no sense for something inanimate, tiny, miles off, and hidden beneath thick snow to be affecting him physically now, but maybe he hadn’t dropped it there as he had first assumed. It was not scientific to assume things, but rather to question and test everything. He’d been carrying the gem between his teeth, hadn’t he? Was there any chance he’d accidentally swallowed it?

It sounded preposterous at face value. Wilson often stuck things between his teeth for convenience; the simple truth was that humans were not supplied with enough hands for all of what they wanted to do. He’d never thought of it as a potentially harmful habit, beyond being admittedly unsanitary and impolite. But of all his nonsensical, desperate hypotheses for what had caused this condition, this struck him as the most substantial yet. He felt it in his gut—metaphorically and literally. A gem with such power didn’t seem like something that could exist in the regular world, but it somehow fit with the ludicrous nature of the island. Tangible shadows, evil flowers, fireproof women, life beyond the grave… _dragons…_ cursed treasure. What shouldn’t he believe in, anymore, really?

It had been wicked sharp, he remembered. It had a shape somewhat reminiscent of an arrow’s design; it could have easily pierced flesh and caught on somewhere it shouldn’t like a fishhook. He’d coughed up blood, and then he’d turned into a dragon.

The more he thought about it, the worse it seemed to hurt, and the more it hurt, the easier it was to imagine the discomfort emanating from one precise location, a sharp pinprick. Now that he was really giving it all of his attention, it bothered him a lot more. He swallowed and shuddered.

Oh, poppycock! He was being ridiculous! Anyone could conjure up make-believe illness if they tried at it hard enough, if they believed themselves. He wasn’t a hypochondriac, but he was gullible—gullible enough to take villainous advice from a smooth-talking radio—and anxious, and he was convincing himself of absurd things based on subjective evidence. Conviction was a powerful thing, dangerous. He needed to know, he needed concrete proof; he needed to go back to the place he’d tripped and find that blasted crystal. Then he’d have peace.

He was about to run off right then and there, but he nearly stepped on the touchstone for the third time. Right, that. “Willow!” He barked urgently. “Come here at once!”

“* no!” She called back.

He didn’t have the time or patience to argue with her any longer, they’d done quite enough bickering. “I said, come here!”

“Why should I listen to you? You haven’t listened to a single * thing I’ve said!” Willow spat hoarsely.

She may have had a point-he had no clue what she might’ve said while he was so lost in thought-but this was so much bigger than their personal quarrels. “No, this is importa-”

“La, la, la,” she interrupted. “* off. I don’t need you, I have fire.”

Well, now he _really_ didn’t want to do something good for her, but he’d already made up his mind, and he didn’t have the time to waste working himself up to change it again. He already felt stupid for dawdling so long on such a simple dilemma.

A low, rumbling growl built up in his chest. In a few short steps, he towered over the rebellious little woman, and the too-bright tongues of fire still clinging to the wasted tree that had fueled it. Willow scowled up at him, her ordinarily lovely face twisted and crinkled. “What,” she demanded, but the time for explaining had come and gone. Wilson stretched his neck down, stooping over her. He delicately scooped her up in his mouth, ignoring her squalling and resistance. He turned and walked a few paces, and then spat her neatly onto the touchstone. It reassembled itself beneath her horizontal, slimy little form, as if flocking to her warmth.

She coughed, clutching her side with her good hand, or whichever fingers were not occupied with her lighter, which was miraculously still lit. “What the * was that???” She screeched, shaking from the sudden cold and her disgust.

She continued in her line of vulgar inquiry, but Wilson did not answer. Her voice, along with his own verbal stream of consciousness, felt muted and unimportant. It vaguely concerned him, but he didn’t linger to wonder why, for once. Instead, he effortlessly stepped over the touchstone and continued off into the dark, leaving his opinionated friend behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson, Willow, girls, you're both pretty, calm down :0 DEEP BREATHS!
> 
> Willow: U got a li'l smth in ur teeth there, Wilson, m'dude; a hint? It's your foot. Bc... because all your stupid words, U,,, you have your foot in your mouth, geddit, haha ha h
> 
> alSO!!!! HEY! TODAY!! IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF WHEN THE FIRST CHAPTER WAS UPLOADED, WOOOoooooOOOOo! I can hardly believe this goofy story is still going, guys, and how amazingly supportive you've all been! THANK YOU FOR READING!!! Plz comment below and let me know your thoughts, it makes my day <3 <3 <3
> 
> OH AND ALSO ALSO, I'm looking for beta readers right now! y-eees, I have two already, I know, but (I'm needy and greedy) *cough cough* They're busy/complicated/have lives and things. I'm not so much seeking someone to correct my grammar (altho lemme know if u see smth plz bc I actually care about grammars and spellinh a lot;) I'm moreso looking for someone to lend me a second opinion on tone, coherency, trivialities like chapter titles,,,,,, yeeeeah, mostly just someone to listen to me ramble, hahahaa. What can I say, I can't seem to write w/out babbling to someone :x Pros involve lots of behind the scenes/deleted scenes stuff and an opportunity to add to or change the story; cons include putting up with more of meeeee and my insecurities, (and no pay), so let me know if you're interested in the comments below!


	9. Inaudible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow's POV! This is the shortest chapter yet ;>

“HEY!” Willow shifted, trying to get up. Something ground together unnaturally inside her chest at the sudden motion. She grit her teeth so hard she thought they might crack and counted to ten before moving again. The cold was numbing her again already, but everything that was still capable of hurting was hurting in some way—most especially her pride. The dragon slobber drenching her was quickly forming ice across its surface. If she didn’t move, she could freeze to the stone beneath her, and she might not have the strength to break free. What a way to go out that would be; beaten by some * hobo nerd’s _spit_.

“WHAT THE * IS WRONG WITH YOU?” She screamed up at the snow-heavy sky, her tired voice and chapped lips cracking. What kind of * sadistic, controlling jerk picked up and moved around an injured, adult woman against her will—with their _teeth??_ Everything was wrong on so many levels, she didn’t know where to start or what to think. Powered through her exhaustion by her wrath, she managed to heave herself back up on her feet and take a few steps, stumbling at the small drop to the ground off the platform she was on. “YOU GET BACK HERE,” She raged.

Wilson didn’t answer. His footsteps didn’t even falter to acknowledge her passion, but were steadily growing more distant, fading. He wasn’t listening, he didn’t care. He was running away like a coward. He was running away like everyone else who didn’t give a * what happened to her.

“Come back and apologize, you giant stupid *” she wheezed angrily, slogging after him uselessly through knee-deep snow. “I wasn’t finished with you yet!” There was a piece of her mind waiting to be delivered, and it had his name on it. This was no way to treat _anybody,_ no matter how big you were!

She needed fire. Fire listened. It heeded her until it took its dying breath, it was faithful. Fire never told her she was a stupid little girl. It didn’t think she was wrong; it mirrored her righteous fury. It was the only thing that really understood. She ambled off into the night, blinded by the darkness and the heavily falling snow. It was just her and her lighter, alone against the world. Nothing else mattered, she told herself bitterly. Nothing else lasted.

Something bristly brushed against her side in the dark, and she lunged at it defensively in her panic before realizing it was just a tree. She scoffed at herself, and then kicked it anyway for good measure. Trees can’t attack people. She was a mess. A justifiable mess! Who wouldn’t be, in her shoes? She’d been stuck in this rotten place for—she didn’t even remember how many days, now. This was the third night in a row Wilson had run off and left her in the dark. The déjà vu was almost humorous. She raised her lighter like a glass, as if offering a toast. “* you, Wilson!” She jeered to nobody, before lighting the nearest branch ablaze. It lit quickly despite the horrible weather, lifting her spirits a bit. She leaned into it, letting the branches scratch her, even though it prickled and stung her open scratches. She didn’t care, the warmth was worth it.

The yellow glow from her fire illuminated the surroundings much more effectively than her lighter, though the falling snow was still difficult to see through. She hadn’t come nearly as far as it had felt like; she could still see the place where Wilson had so rudely dumped her, despite her limited visibility. She clenched her hands into fists, but just as quickly released them when the motion made her wrist twinge. _Come here at once,_ he’d said, but where the * had he been every time she’d called his name? Picking flowers or turning into a monster? She was right; he wasn’t a very good dragon, but he wasn’t great at being human, either.

“Hey, WILSON,” she yelled off into the dark. She sure spent a lot of time yelling at him in the dark, yelling into deaf ears. Why did she bother trying? Why did she _ever_ try?

“Just—STAY GONE, then!” she spat vehemently. It made her lungs and throat ache, but she didn’t care. “I DON’T GIVE A * WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU. I don’t give a * what happens to ANYONE,” she persuaded no one. If she’d learned anything from all her previous messed-up nightmare relationships, it was that caring about other people was never worth the cost. It never lasted. She wasn’t about to put her hand back on that burner!

“I don’t even _like_ you!” She seethed. She _didn’t_ care. She hated him, she hated his guts, she hated everything about him. She wasn’t hurt by his criticism, because—why should his opinion matter to her?! Willow didn’t care what anyone thought. The world as a whole could just bite it. “GO TO *!”

A soft sound came from behind and a little above her, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It was nearly imperceptible through the popping and snapping of the burning tree and her own ragged panting. Someone--or something--inhaled deeply through their nostrils, following with a heavy, self-satisfied sigh. Willow whipped her head to look over her shoulder. Her long hair snagged on the branches. She couldn’t see, but—there was nothing to see, nobody else could stand this close to her fire! No one was there, but the stench of acrid cigar smoke was not entirely masked by the stronger, sweeter smell of wood burning smoke. A sense of familiarity struck her again. There wasn’t anything funny about it this time.

“Who’s-” she started, then stopped, unsure she wanted to reveal her position to whatever might be listening. But she’d screamed and cussed at the empty air just seconds ago, and lit a fire that may as well have been a beacon, so it was a little late for the stealthy approach. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

Nothing answered. Maybe she’d imagined it. Willow hugged her bad wrist close to her chest.

Wilson had talked about a man with a cigar, hadn’t he? What had he said… someone who wasn’t quite there, someone watching. Maybe it was a ghost? It wasn’t so hard to believe in ghosts by herself in the dark in an unfamiliar cemetery. She’d just spent the evening arguing with a dragon, after all.

She bit her lip. Oh, *, Wilson. She’d never been quick to eat her words, but fear had swallowed her anger whole. She could hardly think of why she’d been so upset in the first place, she just knew she couldn’t face this crazy * alone and injured. Right in that moment, she wanted nothing else as much as she wanted weird little Wilson to come running back so he could tell her why ghosts and dragons couldn’t possibly exist, and maybe offer her some ridiculous, flowery apology. Heck, she’d even take another argument over this.

She wanted the _human_ Wilson back! He had the map and the experience… and, *, he was another human being! She didn’t have the luxury of abandoning this friendship just because she was offended. There wasn’t anyone else here to replace him. She’d been alone for a week here, and it had been miserable; he’d been isolated for _years_! She couldn’t do the same. So maybe she was independent, and didn’t need any one person—but she needed _someone_.

Maybe she _did_ care about him, beyond his map or whatever. Maybe she didn’t care _why…_ maybe there wasn’t a reason, maybe she didn’t need one. Maybe no one needed a * reason to care.

The snow was quickly stifling her beautiful fire. Willow’s stiff, sore, exhausted body didn’t want to move, but she couldn’t stand here forever, and she didn’t want to stay here in the dark with whatever felt like whispering and breathing at her ominously. She hadn’t seen any other trees nearby to burn, so she’d just have to run and hope she came across another one. At least she knew which direction she was headed in. This time, she wasn’t going to wait for Wilson to come to his senses and come back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhhhh. No jokes/alt text this time y'all *flops over on keyboard* I'm gonna try to keep goin' on through the holidays, but please have patience if I burn out :> Merry Christmas and happy New Year/all the cheerful holiday things/etc to everyone just in case!
> 
> Also, I'm still accepting beta offers if anyone here hasn't suffered enough!

**Author's Note:**

> What have I done :0 Who let me into this fandom
> 
> Chapter breaks will be perspective switches, so please expect some variation in chapter length/update dates! I tryyy for once a month. Thoughtful comments encourage me to write faster! ;)  
> (Or maybe any comments, hhhh)
> 
> While you wait, go check out my Deviantart page! There's oodles of weird fanart and concept for the fic there (but browse carefully, for here there be spoilers) ;P https://whimsikitty.deviantart.com/gallery/66009689/Don-t-Starve-fanart
> 
>  MANY THANKS to EVERYONE who has BETA'D FOR ME EVER: Bunni, Duck, and Puzzle! <3


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